


winter in my veins

by lovelyskies



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda?, M/M, Sickfic, a bit of horror, also this is a romance fic, basically a Frozen au, bc you all eat up romance like a twink-hungry vulture, dw the groke comforts, groke is like 'welcome to my world', moomin is too busy losing his mind, snuf befriends the groke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyskies/pseuds/lovelyskies
Summary: As an illness unfoldes in pained degrees, Snufkin uncovers what could be a life-long prognosis from a chance encounter with the Lady of the Cold. Even the ever-loving Moomins' warmth can do nothing to thaw Snufkin's disease. As the prognosis becomes grim, Snufkin seeks help from others in a similar condition to his, finding comfort in the most unlikely of places.Then comes Moomin's turmoil, what if his love is taken away from him without warning? As soon as the thoughts of their future together arise, he must put them at bay. For it's a very real possibility he may never know the feel of his hair in his paws again, the curve of his lips against his.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 26
Kudos: 47





	1. catch and release

**Author's Note:**

> tw: violence, gore, injury

Moomin watches as Snufkin lounges beside Mamma, his slender hands weaving in and out of the fabric to create a delicate flower pattern. The needle flashes in Moomin’s eyes before diving back into the cloth, becoming half as memorizing as the mumrik. Mamma is doing the same on her handtowel, the fabric much shorter and thinner than Snufkin’s. 

The troll strolls over to the worn bergère, the fabric that was once royal red is now a faded pink. But the Moomins aren’t known for getting rid of _loved_ possessions, despite their age. So the chair will stay exactly where it sits until the wood itself breaks down, proving itself unusable in every regard. 

Absently, Snufkin watched as Moomin plumped beside the two. It seems the troll has something on his mind for his gaze is distant, albeit his body lax. Strange, considering how usually carefree he is.

Snufkin’s travels this winter proved to be more difficult than customary. The snow lay thick, rising and seeping into his boots. Time and time again he had to stop and boil his socks, clothes, dripping wet with the icy poison. (Luckily his matches hadn’t gotten wet, one of the few saved things.) And with heavy snowfall comes the lack of substance. One, two, three days he would go without food and dry firewood.

At least, that’s what he told Moomin, the rest, the _truth_ , unspoken.

When he had returned home, he was met with a deep frown from his friend, his _more_ than a friend. His dress tattered, new holes occupying the already coming-apart cloth, it had looked as if he went through a fiery volcano. It had been an unbearable scene for Moomin, seeing the delicate and faint outline of his shrinking frame that emerged from the shadows. 

Snufkin hadn’t expected long-term effects to come from the harsh winter - but he found himself hypersensitive to the cold. Although it’s still early spring, and the temperatures _should_ be rising, he spent many the night shivering, huddling up with anything to keep him warm. So here he sits, embroidering a blanket Mama had been so kind to gift after she saw his pitiful excuse of a towel. 

Seemingly losing interest in the art, Snufkin’s attention remains on Moomin’s peculiar expression. His eyes seem transfixed on the scar on his chin. But then comes a slip of his forefinger, the needle prodding into his calloused flesh. A small drop of blood wells at the puncture. 

“Ah,” is all Snufkin says, more out of surprise than pain. 

However, that was enough for Moomin to sputter, jumping up from his seat. “Are you okay?!” his voice is shrill, staring transfixed at the small red dot. 

With his finger now in his mouth, Snufkin nods. Mamma pulls her needle out one more time, letting it rest on the stretched fabric of the hoop before asking, “Moomin, dear, could you get a bandage from the top shelf?” 

“Oh, it’s nothing, Mamma. I have done this to myself countless times.” Snufkin takes out his finger, grimacing at the metallic taste on his tongue. 

But Moomin already left in a rush, his panic equal to a man whose partner just went into labor. Sounds of cups and medicine bottles hitting the sink reverberate from the kitchen. It isn’t a minute later that he returns with a small white tin, some scissors - charging at Snufkin. 

Snufkin falls back on the couch with a small yelp as the other fumbles with the supplies. Mamma chuckles, her lips curving into a loving smile. 

“I could’ve used you when I got that fishing hook stuck in my paw,” Snufkin laughs, a bit too forced but finding the silence terribly uncomfortable. 

Moomin, whose body is already knotted with panic, nearly drops everything after hearing that. “You-You _what?”_ worry seeps through his voice. 

_Oh,_ that was clearly the wrong conversation starter. “Er, nevermind that.” 

Moomin nods, whispers something encouraging to himself, and then exhales a shaky sigh. With that, he snips a strip of the adhesive, more than plenty needed for the tiny injury. Snufkin extends his paw as he peels away the covering. He couldn’t dare look at the troll; he shields his face from his attention, taking admiration in the floorboards. 

Moomin’s shaky paws take his, working with such delicacy to wrap the bandaid around that quant small digit. Once completed, he closes his entire paw around Snufkin’s. The latter could fit both of his paws inside Moomin’s grip, still having room to spare. 

A tremor works from the top of Snufkin’s neck downward, half from the touch and half from the chillness in the room. 

“Are you okay?” Moomin asks once more, this time much calmer, softer. 

Snufkin’s face tilts upward, staring into those light eyes of his. After a stunted breath, he replies equally as soft, “Yes, I am. Thank you.” So formal, so _scripted._ They are aware of their audience, not wanting to seem anything other than respectable. 

Moomin is reassured by that, rubbing his thumb over the paw in his grip. A hint of a smile edges his lips. 

“Tell me Snufkin, do you plan on camping out tonight?” Mamma asks, resuming her embroidery. 

Snufkin lowers his hand, letting it fall on his lap (much to Moomin’s disappointment). He furrows his brow, deep in thought. “As I do any night. May I ask why?” 

“Oh, it’s just going to be chilly is all. The wind can still be quite nippy this time of year.” She never once looks up from her work. “I’m sure Moomin wouldn’t mind sharing his _warm_ room.” 

On cue, Moomin’s ears perk up. 

Snufkin hesitates - it _had_ been cold these past few nights. And lovely Mamma, knowing that Snufkin wouldn’t dare _ask,_ but would be one to take an offer that’s given. A small draft from the kitchen rushes past him, seemingly answering it for himself. “If I wouldn’t be too much of a bother…”  
  
“Of course not!” Moomin replies much too quickly. He then coughs in his paw, regrounding himself. “You’re always welcome to stay the night, Snufkin,” he whispers lowly. “I’ve told you that plenty of times.”

Snufkin curls in on himself, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. _Yes,_ that may be true. But with staying the night came _expectations._ And, oh, how he dreaded to _act_ a certain way or _do_ certain things - always afraid to disappoint. On the other paw, Moomin is a reasonable, kind gentlemoom (a word Snufkin coined). He would regard Snufkin’s wishes to a tee, even though Snufkin could tell he was disheartened. 

Mamma could tell the air is growing stiff so she stood herself up, wiping her apron of any spare embroidery strings. “Well, I’ll leave you two to get settled for the evening.” 

“Thank you, Mamma,” they both say simultaneously. They share a look afterward, giggling as they did when they were children. Mamma smiles and walks toward the kitchen, stopping at the doorway. 

She watches as Snufkin walks up the stairway first, his paws wrapping around the railing with a small squeeze. Moomin waits until he reaches the top before he begins. 

“When you have a minute,” Mamma begins. Moomin hesitates, turning to face his mother. “Come see me in the kitchen.” She winks before leaving the room, leaving her son stumped as to what that could mean. 

It’s difficult to make himself enter his friend’s room. Snufkin hesitates, staring at the bronze doorknob and the fisheye reflection of himself. He had been in there countless times, even staying the night - yet something lodged in his throat, something weighed heavy in his feet. His paw reaches out, as if in slow motion. His body crying to him that he should turn while he can, to sleep in the tent, to be _alone_. 

“Need some help?” Moomin huffs, having gotten out of breath from climbing the stairs. 

Snufkin’s paw snaps back like an animal caught in a trap. He stutters, wishing more than anything he had his hat to shield his heated face. 

Moomin pays no mind, seeing he didn’t want to push this matter further. He opens the door and motions Snufkin to enter with a small curtsey. Once in the room, Snufkin sinks down at the edge of the bed, kicking off his boots. Although he preferred them on, seeking out any source of warmth, he thought it as the polite thing to do. 

Moomin watches the other as if they were doing something extraordinary. But then, as he saw before, Snufkin’s entire body shivers at once, then passing as quickly as it came. “Would you like a bath?” he decides on suddenly, not putting much thought into it.

Snufkin blinks. “Do I smell?” He lifts his arm and sniffs at the sleeve of his dress. Oh. Oh, dear. It smells of yesterday’s dinner, being a fish stew. 

“No, no!” Moomin waves his hands about. “It’s just, you look cold is all. A steaming bath will help with that.” 

Snufkin smiles, amusement rich in his eyes. “Is that so? You needn’t make excuses for me, dear troll. I know when I’m less appealing to the senses.” Speaking of, he lifts his paws upward to the light, to see if any dirt lay hidden underneath his claws. 

Moomin scoffs, offended for his sake. “How could you say that! I happen to find you _very much_ appealing as you are!” He nearly chokes on his next breath, realizing what had just come out of his mouth. 

Snufkin’s paw freezes mid-air. He never got used to compliments, even when the paired started to officially ‘court,’ as it were. Love is a terribly complicated thing, and to put words into the mix - _dear oh dear._ Some things are better written with lyrics, hidden under stanzas of symbolism. “I believe I will take you up...on that offer,” he mutters, eyes refusing to lock with Moomin’s as he stands. “The, er, bath is this way?” He points dumbly to the bathroom, eyes still glued onto the floor. He mentally slaps himself for asking such an absurd question.

“Oh!” Moomin scratches the back of his neck. “Yes, yes it’s still in there. Need help with the faucets?” 

“I can manage, thank you kindly,” he says, even though he hasn’t the faintest clue how they worked. Snufkin raises his paw to tip his hat, only to be cruelly reminded it didn’t lay on his head. With having shed enough of his dignity tonight, Snufkin hurries into the bathroom and closes the door, his back leaning against the wood. 

Seeing him rush off like that, Moomin feels a spasm of nerves in his stomach. He’s hiding something, it’s clear. But the silence on the matter is heavy, prolonged - which makes every hair on his body stand. As he fights to close the wound in his heart, he opens the wooden closet and pulls out his favorite nightgown, well favorite in the sense he _adored_ seeing Snufkin wearing it. The thick flannel has a delicate embroidery textured down the long sleeves, right down to the lace sewn onto the hem. He would never say it out loud but thought Snufkin looked like he was wearing a wedding gown! And, _oh_ ! How that made his heart flutter! And to imagine their _own_ wedding, what an incredible thought. (Even he knows deep down they would never throw something elaborate). The romance is much too big to digest at once, it must be broken down into small fantasies. The flower arrangements, the food - oh but he mustn’t be thinking of this now! 

Moomin shakes his head, getting out all the fuzzy thoughts in his mind. He hangs the gown on the handle of the bathroom door before leaving once more to see Mamma. 

Time to themselves is what all _couples_ need. And after such a tremendous, _treacherous_ trip Snufkin took, it’s a wonder why they have yet to spend a night together. Albeit, it had only been a few nights since his return, the idea still bewilders Moominmamma. Moomin _must_ be able to voice his concerns, worries, instead of keeping them all bottled inside. To mourn with a sigh late into the night, hugging his mother dear - _“I’m worried about him…”_

Well, that certainly won’t do. So her inviting Snufkin to learn some sewing techniques, imploring that he stay the night, and now making mugs of hot milk are all part of her plan. The plan for the two to enjoy the other’s company, to relish every shared breath. (Although a mother is always happy to help, he must learn to stand up for himself). 

With such nervous energy coursing through his veins, it’s no wonder Moomin manages to stub his foot on the corner of the island in the kitchen, leaping and cursing. Startled by the gesture, Mamma whips around, watching as Moomin hops as if he stepped on hot coals. In her paw is a spoon, dripping with milk from which she stirred. 

“Are you quite alright? You gave me a scare!” 

“Yes, Mamma,” he says with difficulty, “I’m fine. What is it you’re wanting to talk about?” 

She turns back to the counter, placing the identical mugs on the tray laden with napkins and biscuits. “I saw the look on your face earlier. You need to make your feelings _known._ ” She shifts again to hand Moomin the platter. “Not to me, _him._ ” 

Moomin takes the platter, his wide eyes staring into his Mother’s. She needn’t say anything more, he knows exactly what she meant. And yet, he frowns with concern. That wouldn’t be _easy._

A paw reaches to the side of his snout, stroking it softly. Their eyes lock, having a conversation in their minds. With a nod, his back straightening, he leaves. 

A sullen glow comes from the bedroom as he reaches the top of the stairs, the cups clattering as he sways. The pipes under the floorboards are quiet - Snufkin must have finished. As he walks into the bedroom, his theory is proven. 

And, _oh_ , he nearly drops everything in his grip at the sight of Snufkin, hair still dripping, wearing that wonderful robe. It lays over him like icing on a cake, with intricate folds and trimmings. He sits at the edge of the mattress, looking as lost as a stray in a thunderstorm. 

“Bath,” Moomin whispers dumbly in the stillness. Snufkin snaps from his glassy belligerence. Moomin coughs before resuming, “How was your bath?” 

His lips part enough to hint at his sharp feline teeth, smiling. “Did wonders for me. How do I smell?” 

Moomin puts the tray down on his desk, glancing briefly at the picture of them sitting on the bridge before hovering above Snufkin. He could smell his skin, the pungent whiff of jasmine. He draws his snout down to Snufkin’s head and kisses him. “You smell beautiful. Although - your hair is dripping. And...” he pauses, thinking over his words carefully, “well, let me get my brush.” 

Snufkin opens his eyes in wonder, watching as Moomin rummages through the bathroom cabinets. He pulls out an elegant, sparkling hairbrush, much too polished to been used. 

“My own brush is, er, well it needs a cleaning.” 

Snufkin looks at his paw, seeing the initials _SN_ written on the silver-tinted back. Suppose it was made for him (and certainly not left behind by someone in a move). After a motionless minute, Snufkin stands to meet Moomin halfway, turning his back. Wrapping his paws around the tangle of hair, Moomin rings out the water, letting it trickle onto the floor. Snufkin stands very still, absorbing the feeling of his body beside his, the gentle tugging of the brush. He closes his eyes as his head is gently pulled to and frow, a gentle purr rising from his lungs. 

Tuffs of hair fly in the air like dandelion floss. Moomin frowns, unsure if that is from lack of hygiene, or something _else._ But the brooding thoughts last little, seeing Snufkin lose his composure like that. He brushes the ginger hair, now blackened with water, dozens of times over. Until the brush weaves through smoothly as a still pond, not even a breeze threatens to break its surface. 

Then the brush comes down and the purrs stop almost immediately. Snufkin turns his head, staring into blue eyes. His eyes seem to ask, _why did you stop? I happened to be enjoying that._ A smile comes to the troll’s lips while he stares back intently, lowly laughing. 

The warmth of the water passed, now the cold mist sinks through the layer of his robe, clinging to him. Snufkin can’t contain the burst of shivering, lasting only a brief moment. He feels Moomin’s lips brush his hair, his arms opening in an invitation. Without a word, Snufkin brings himself into the warm haven of his fur-covered body. 

“Mamma made some warm milk and honey for us,” he whispers, lips on the top of his head. 

“How nice of her,” he says in return. Snufkin’s paw flattens against his chest, feeling the steady beat on his palm. In turn, Moomin grips him, soft but firm, into his embrace. 

“We should drink it before it cools,” Moomin murmurs.

“That we should.” 

Neither attempts to move from their positions, much too comfortable to do so. 

Eventually, Moomin breaks himself away, allowing Snufkin to climb on top of the bed. He crawls over to the right side, lifting the covers and snuggling himself inside. Moomin takes both mugs, the warmth slowly escaping the ceramic, and extends his paw to Snufkin who accepts it graciously. 

Moomin cautiously joins him in bed, after folding the covers down. Snufkin adjusts his position till his head rests against the pillow of his chest. Moomin, in turn, lifts his arm to cradle him. His free paw presses the cup to his lips, the porcelain rim warm against his teeth. 

The warmth begins at the tip of his tongue, till it pools in his stomach. Snufkin relinquishes the feeling of being wholly encompassed in lovingness - Moomin’s arms wrapped around him, the blankets covering every inch of his frail body, and the drink Mamma had made. He tips the cup, swallowing large, windy gulps until none enters his throat. With the cup falling onto his lap, he turns his face against his downy chest, sighing a quiet ‘ _Ah.’_

Moomin chuckles lovingly, stroking his still-damp hair with his free paw. Light dances beneath Snufkin’s closed eyelids - unconsciousness fighting to pull him under. 

Except it doesn’t. “Snufkin?” Moomin says, his whisper falling delicately against his ear. 

Snufkin hums in turn, very much enjoying the vibration of his voice. 

Moomin sets both cups on the nightstand, the only sound in the room the soft _clank_ of the glasses. Losing such an angelic moment would break the peace, but it has to be done - that he knows. He must make time for his emotions to be known. Otherwise the other would never inquire, continuing the heartache. “I would like to talk to you,” Moomin’s voice is raspy, straining to keep a whisper, “about this winter.” 

Snufkin’s eyes open. There’s a long silence, the other wishing Snufkin to voice his thoughts. 

“Did you sleep well?” Snufkin asks, already knowing the answer. For he asked when he first dried his boots by the fireplace, around three days prior. But he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“I did, thank you for asking. But…” a pause. “I was meaning about you. About what I don’t know.” His voice fades with every word, losing confidence in himself. 

Snufkin strains his head up, to look at Moomin in the eyes. “What do you mean?” 

Moomin looks down, thinking how strained his love looks, the tiredness in his eyes. “I know you spare details for my sake. So I don’t _worry.”_

“Moomin,” he begins with a sigh. A sigh that says _this again?_

“No,” he cuts off, “let me finish.”

Snufkin’s smile fades, a small blush warming his cheeks. He nods tentatively. 

“It’s my right to worry. And since we’re... _more_ than friends, I think you should inform me of things, don’t you think?” Something is underlying in his tone, perhaps frustration? 

Snufkin’s mouth opens to say something, then closes. He heaves himself up, elbows pointing on the troll’s stomach. “There’s nothing you can do, what’s done is done,” he copies Moomin’s tone, admittedly a bit more pressed. “What is the point of useless worry?” 

“That’s not for you to decide if it’s useless or not!” he nearly shouts. Snufkin’s head tilts away to avoid looking at him. Moomin swallows, finding the strength to voice his biggest fear. “What if I were to wake up one day...” A long pause. “What if you were to die suddenly?” he mutters, voice subdued. 

“Moomintroll!” he gasps. “You can’t think that way!” Although his voice is quiet, the words are spoken with such intensity he might as well been yelling. He speaks as if getting caught with his paw in the cookie jar, the reason unknown to Moomin. 

“But _what if?”_ Moomin looks over Snufkin carefully - his aching eyes, his hair cascading over his face. “I wouldn’t know you were ill, you wouldn’t tell me if you were.” 

Snufkin rubs the corners of his tired eyes. It takes a moment to answer - these things _must_ be thought of carefully. “And how long have you had these fears?”

“Fears?” he repeats, not entirely understanding. “I’ve _always_ worried about you.” 

Snufkin shakes his head, running a paw from Moomin’s shoulder to his elbow - knowing how comforting physical touch is to the troll. “About me being ill.”

“Oh.” Moomin draws Snufkin closer, until their chest touch, his knees on either side of his thigh. “Since you’ve returned - I see it in your eyes. Are you- Are you sick?” 

Snufkin feels his concerned gaze glance over him. He feels hesitation for speaking the truth. It will _not_ be what Moomin wants to hear, and yet, he wouldn’t want a lie. “I’m not entirely sure,” he mutters. 

Moomin’s ears fall, his eyes widening. “You don’t know if you’re sick?” he asks, for clarification. A part of him refuses to believe such a thing. A creature as smart as Snufkin would surely _know_ if something is aloof. 

“I don’t…” His brows crease, thinking back to him not being able to blow a single note in his harmonica. A chill burning erupts in his lungs when he attempts to do so. “I _don’t_ know.” 

Moomin looks at him then and knows he’s telling the truth. And that frightens him to the core. 

Snufkin feels his unnerving glaze study him, his face, that _scar._ Both have the need to communicate _something_ but neither having any idea _what_ to say. Minutes pass before either speak. “Good night, Moomintroll,” Snufkin whispers. 

Worries and concerns gather inside Moomin’s mind as if they have wings. It takes a great effort to pin them down. But perhaps that is enough for tonight. “Sleep well,” he replies, turning to switch off the lamp.

In the darkness comes another worry. Snufkin becomes aware of hollowness inside, not from pain or hunger - but from the idea that he lost a part of himself. Those years of loneliness were just thrown away, that they _weren’t_ part of his identity. Here he is, laying in a _real_ bed, with someone he _loved._ If that didn’t go against everything he prided himself on. 

Nonsense, he tells himself. This isn’t something to just _throw away_. Sighing, he presses his nose against the crook of Moomin’s arm. Wondering if he hadn’t already. 

Exhaustion pulls him down, but Snufkin is still level-headed. And he could tell the hurt in Moomin’s voice when he said _sleep well_. He leans up from his position on his chest, one paw on his snout. Moomin freezes, breath caught in his lungs. Snufkin kisses and whispers against his mouth, “I may be mad, but I’m in love with you.” 

Moomin’s tail flops from the covers, smacking the side of the bed. “Oh? Well, call me a lunatic. I’m in the same boat.” He seems to have forgotten entirely of their earlier conversation or at least _acting_ like it.

Snufkin laughs and even though it’s pitch black, Moomin can see the crinkle of his eyes. Finding it much too adoring, Moomin encloses him in softness, holding him tightly as he feasts on him with kisses. Another laugh rustles deep in the mumrik’s throat at the contact. 

Moomin’s mouth breaks to explore his body, the silky texture of his gown. A paw reaches from underneath the dress, his knees folded inward. He caresses his soft stomach, thumb circling around his navel. 

Snufkin sighs, his body relaxing. He reaches out with his paw to hold his snout, whispering, “Don’t get any ideas, love. I’m much too tired tonight.”

With the loving feeling in his chest blossoming, his paws remain gentle, now resting against his stomach. “ _Me?_ I would _never_.” 

He laughs feebly, fighting the urge to succumb himself to sleep. “I know you,” he mumbles with a yawn. Moomin rubs his snout on top of his head - a final kiss goodnight. 

“Rest easy,” he whispers fondly, the last thing Snufkin hears before slipping into darkness. 

The nightmare comes as it had every night. A recollection too ghastly, too unholy chill to be fantasy. The memory that prevents him from rest. 

Dawn broke cold and gray. Snufkin had trailed the high earth bank, setting up camp at the top. Winters are dark, this he knows, but he hadn’t seen the sun in _days._ Not a cloud in the sky, it’s impossible to tell the time. It could be morning, could be night. This fact doesn’t alarm the seasoned traveler, even faced with the neverending darkness of winter. 

Looking back along the path he had come, he sees miles and miles of ice hidden underneath a foot of snow. As far as he can see - _white._

His mind refuses to imagine the worst. It wouldn’t come to that. _Surely._ Rather, he hones in the _facts._ The fact that it’s around 25 degrees below celsius. The fact that he’s guarded against the cold with layers of clothing and a pair of, albeit tattered, mittens. He did not think of his weaknesses, the way all creatures can only handle _so much_ heat, cold. Not how the line of survivability is becoming dangerously narrow. 

The diminishing fire barely lets out more than a crackle. He would need more wood - more _dry_ wood. Yet he feels as if he were to stand, he would shatter like glass. Ice glues his lips shut, the fine hairs on his face frosted. But he still shivers - _good._ That is good. He would only start to worry when that ceased. 

With one last glance at the fire, he decides to stand. Expecting pain from his joints, he’s surprised when none comes. His face, chest, knees are all numb. The only pain coming from the thin layer of frost covering his exposed skin. Proving itself to be motivation to get the fire going once more. 

Walking down the path, he stomps his boots forcefully to regain the feeling in his feet. It isn’t long till he reaches the creek, taking a moment to admire the curves and bends. If one were to step on the stream, they would be met with both ice _and_ water. There’s only a few inches of ice, bubbles of water underneath, and a layer of snow on top. It would be easy for someone to fall if they didn’t know the land. For this, Snufkin considers himself lucky. 

Coming around from the bend, walking deep in the forest, he hears what could be none other than a frightened _horse._ He pauses, mid-bend, his arms full of twigs. From under several dying pine trees, he had found firewood. And from the bushes he found twigs.

The instant he stopped, his heart lodged in his throat. 

A man must be able to keep his head in these conditions. And here he is _imagining_ things that are not true _._ He scoffs at himself, the rapidity that his body strained from his mind. This matters little, what _truly_ matters is the _fire._ That is a matter of life and death. He would pull down his boots, his socks with unfeeling digits, and warm them with the dancing flames. The thought calms him. 

Deciding that all is ready, he hurriedly stands once more. Although his feet had gone numb, he hadn’t the time to stomp about. Rather, he focuses on following his tracks. Under the trees from which he walked, a branch relieved itself of the weight of snow. Two steps in front of him, the load of snow falls without warning. He halts, eyes wide. 

_That couldn’t have been a coincidence,_ he tells himself. The snow is _real._ That horse’s cry, _was that real?_ Perhaps...he had pulled a twig on that tree. Causing enough movement to cause the fall. _But he hadn’t,_ and he knew that. Yet he will tell himself anything to ease the anxiety that courses throughout his body. 

He steps over the pile of snow. That’s when he hears it. 

The horse gives her harness a shake, the bells ringing in the still air. Her mane is like a row of icy waves, thick and matted. 

Snufkin sees her from the spaces between the thin trees, slowly walking. From her tail floats a fog of powdery frost. It transforms with the wind like notes from a hymn. His face turns ashen, the muscles in his legs tightening enough they could snap in two. 

From the fragments of moonlight, he sees the whites beaming his way. The horse and its rider seemingly _glow,_ although faint. The illusion is dizzying, with one barely able to differ the snowy land and herself, both being as white as the moon. 

Flakes fall on Snufkin’s shoulders silently as they had the carnage left behind by the Lady of the Cold. Soon enough, all would disappear underneath the snow - including the evidence of deceased bodies. 

The Lady is different from the Groke in the sense she doesn’t _eat_ her prey. She simply has her fun. Sometimes that meant _freezing_ their bodies, sometimes beheading. And there are times when she grows bored of the mundane, seeking something _entirely different_. 

Snufkin takes slow, shallow breathes - his lungs burning with every inhale. He squeezes his eyes shut, opening again to register that this, in fact, is not a dream. He grips the wood in his paws so tightly, his knuckles whiten. 

The Lady of the Cold strides along the path, in the break of the woods where Snufkin had just walked, following the bootprints. Her eyes are as large as an owl’s, never once blinking, spilling a warm yellow light. 

Snufkin shudders a breath upon seeing the red blotch on the horse’s neck. The blood had been splattered there, perhaps she had trotted on something unfortunate (its head left behind in the snow, steam still rising from its ragged neck). That unfortunate _someone_ could be him in a matter of minutes. 

His muscles tighten, boots sinking further and further into the snow. Things are happening much too quickly to properly process, adrenaline riding his brain of proper reasoning. From the distance he sees them approaching, remaining still is an option, yes. _But is it the right one?_ His eyes dart from bush to bush, searching for a way out. 

With a tremendous struggle, he takes one step back, then another. _Slow and steady._ If he takes his time, all will be well. His shaking body makes the effort that much more. They stand around 60 feet back, the horse making uneasy movements. She lifts one hoof, then the other - much like Snufkin. 

Underneath the snow lays a log. His heel hits the wood. He slips. He falls. 

The wood in his arms flies from his arms, landing in the pillowy snow with a soft _thud._ Slowly, as he struggles to lean up, he hears the horse cry. 

Snufkin never cursed, but he had at that moment. 

“ _Fuck!”_ he shrieks, flailing to his feet. 

_Thump, da thump…_ snow flies from under her hooves, now in a full sprint toward the traveler. With a fear he never felt before, Snufkin runs blindly. Through the snow, the woods, until he sees the banks of the creek once more. It feels as if he is unattached to the earth, his feet numb as they take the weight of his body. Tears fall from his face, the thought of death coming upon him. _Is this how he goes?_ It seemed fitting enough. Quite a tale to leave the world on - to sign off with a lavish signature.

But he pushes that thought in the back of his mind. No matter how hard it demands to be heard. 

Once, twice does he catch himself from falling. Finally, he drops to the ground as he loses his footing once more. His chin slams onto the ground, teeth snapping onto his tongue. A gush of blood erupts from his mouth as he screams. 

The galloping gets closer, _louder._ Somehow, he blunders to his feet. However, he doesn’t make it another 50 feet before he falls face first, his paws clawing the air. He knows then it’s foolish to try again. There’s no outrunning her. He isn’t able to recover his breath before they approach - hearing the soft jingle of her bells. 

There are worse ways to die, he thinks. And he should accept this calmly, there’s no helping it. But his mind goes to the Moomins. How they would find his body lying in the snow. And for a moment, he sees it too. Like he’s outside his body, looking down at his corpse alongside his friend, the smell of death lingering in the air. 

She demounts from the horse, letting her sheer dress swoop down to her scrawny legs. She wears no shoes, her feet surprisingly human. On her left foot is an anklet, similar to a shackle. Snufkin turns, propping himself up on his elbows. He looks everywhere _but_ the eyes, knowing full well that’s a death sentence. 

Her face is sharp, nose just the same. The breeze doesn’t ruffle her hair for the strands stick out like individual ice sicles. She smells of wet mildew and stone, curiously enough. If he were to look in her eyes, he would find them as red as the blood scattered on her dress. Her colors resemble a winter hare, but her features were most definitely _not_ as affable. 

The eyes stare at him glassily, Snufkin is unable to fixate on anything other than her wide smile. His shuddering paws come up to his face, shielding himself from looking at the medusa. He can feel the frost trace his crackled lips, the tips of his claws. She leans in, closer, _closer._ Her chilling breath blowing fog, tiny fragments of glass puncturing his skin. 

_Don’t look - whatever you do - don’t look._

Coldness rushes through his veins. He can feel the icy blood penetrate his beating heart. _This is it,_ he decides. _This is my final moment._

Except - it isn’t. 

The tip of her forefinger, whose nail grows several staggering inches, presses against his shivering chest - on his right breast, above his heart. 

A rush of energy courses throughout his body. As if a wind blew and struck him down. His eyes flash open - more awake than he had been in _weeks._

He watches as the finger retracts, no hesitation in her movements. She rises to her feet, mounting back on her horse. 

Snufkin whimpers uncontrollably, gulping large breaths to remain silent. He observes the hooves step back once, twice, then pivots. Tears fall down his face as he laughs, his voice shrill, cracking with every breath. Such exhaustion that weighed his body down seemingly evaporated. _How did I manage that one?_

Retrieving the wood that fell, he returns to his campsite, the fire nothing more than a thin line of smoke. He takes slow, cautious steps - as if the Lady could appear around any corner, to finish what she started. After striking another match, he wraps himself tightly in a thin blanket, a reminder to get a new one next time he’s in town. He drips into what seems to have been the most comfortable sleep in his life. 

Ironic, him waking up to his dream-self falling asleep. But that’s the way it’s been since that night, suppose it’s the inner trauma making itself known. The first night he had this nightmare, he woke drenched in sweat. Now, it’s just another passing thought. 

He pries himself away from the sleeping troll’s grip, both paws held tightly around him as if he were a pillow. Once sitting up, he rubs his tired eyes. The time is unknown, but if he had to guess, it had been three or four hours. Which is about all the sleep he will get in a night - not wanting to relive the nightmare _twice_ in one day. 

With as much grace as he can manage, he heaves himself out of bed. He tip-toes to the bathroom, wincing when the blinding light flickers on. He watches Moomin intently, the way his chest slowly rises and falls, the soft snores that escape his lips. 

But then something demands his attention, as it had the nights before. An _aching_ in his heart. He pulls the gown off his shoulder, letting it fall to his elbow. He moves his paw to the place that holds too many secrets. The place that now sports a nasty, scar. A scar that looks like no other. No simple purple blob, rather, an intricate design - almost like _a snowflake._ He splays his digits on his chest, on his aching heart. The pain - he doesn’t know who to blame. Moomin had stolen his heart so flawlessly, yet he left no scar. 

And that leaves _one_ person to blame.


	2. dreams of yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: animal death, taxidermy, sex 
> 
> yes there is smut in this chapter - it starts after "Something curious glitters in Snufkin’s dark eyes, reminding Moomin of a cat stalking a mouse in a grassy field." 
> 
> thank you for the feedback ♥ it's always appreciated

Moomin spends the day picking ferns and herbs down by the river, filling his mother’s basket. They would make a hearty, creamy soup this evening. Although it isn’t spoken, they both know it’s meant for Snufkin. 

When Moomin first opened his eyes this morning, he found the left side of the bed cold. He rolls over to the pillow with the small indention, pressing it into his snout. It smelt of _his_ own shampoo and warm milk, with a hint of honey. If it were possible to condense an entire person down to a scent, this would be more _Moomin_ than Snufkin. Still, it was a lovely thing to wake up to. 

Yet his heart pains seeing the bed empty. _Of course,_ he told himself. Should he expect anything different? He didn’t mean to smother the mumrik, yet something is obviously _wrong._ He pushed away the thoughts to peel back the covers, throwing his legs over his side of the bed. With a yawn, he ventured to the window, finding a fire already smoking from Snufkin’s campsite. Thankfully, Snufkin didn’t think to leave after their _confrontation_ (if it could be called that). 

Now, Moomin holds his breath, listening to the gentle trickling of the stream. When he closes his eyes, he can see Snufkin’s face, feel his chilled breath on his cheek. He can recall how _fragile_ he felt underneath the covers, his frame a mere fraction of its original state. 

Mamma wipes off her apron, watching her son stand curiously at the edge of the bank. Although her basket overflows with greenery, his lacks a single leaf. She knows her son well and knows he absorbs other’s pain as his own. As if he is experiencing pain in a phantom limb. 

“Moomintroll, dear?” 

Moomin breaks away from his daydream, shuddering the memory away. “Yes, Mamma?” He comes jogging back to her, looking down at the bush she picks. She shows him her full basket, wishing for a trade-off. “Oh...I’m not good at this, am I?” 

“Yes, well, you appear to have something on your mind.” 

Moomin hunkers down beside her. “I didn’t know it was obvious.” He picks up a nearby stick and draws two eyes on the dirt, wondering if he should draw a frown or smile. 

“Did you speak last night?” Mamma plucks another herb from its stem, her voice unwavering. 

His gut clenches. “I did. But he won’t tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Does he know himself?” 

Moomin shakes his head, a frown on his face. “I don’t believe so, no.” A beat passes without another word. And that brings all the terror back inside him, blind devastation. Tears stream down his face as he clutches his knees, refusing to look at his mother. 

“Well then,” Mamma says suddenly. She stands with both baskets looped around her arms.

“Wh-What?” Moomin sputters with a shuddering breath. He rubs his burning eyes profusely. 

“If he won’t give you the details, you must _make_ him.” She walks back down the path they came, now having more herbs to know what to do with. Moomin rushes to catch up with her. “How are you to help when you don’t know what it is that’s hurting him? 

“But he doesn’t know himself, Mamma!” he says, choking. 

“He can at least let you in on the details. That way you can solve it together, yes?” 

Moomin thinks for a moment before replying half-heartedly, “I suppose.” The real worry is _making_ Snufkin talk. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

The sun barely kisses the hill as Snorkmaiden walks across the yard, basket looped around her arms. Feeding the chickens is her favorite pastime, it couldn’t even be called a chore. They would greet her with cheers, their clucks echoing in the modest red barn. They would thank her with a coo as she took their warm eggs, more excited about the feed than anything. 

Each has a name, albeit titles from heartthrobs in her novels - Raymond, Lawrence, Louis, and Ernest. Her brother had laughed, saying she couldn’t possibly give them _male_ names. Yet he still relished in their gifts come morning. He never complained thereafter. 

This morning the chickens are rather quiet. Suppose they are sleeping in, she decides, nothing thinking too much of it. 

Snorkmaiden comes around the corner, knocking on the chipped door. “Hello, my lovelies!” she calls. “Is anyone hungry?” 

No response. 

Odd. She takes a closer look at the door, noticing how some of the red paint is clawed off, the lock hanging off by a single screw. That’s more than _odd._

She pushes open the creaking door. The air leaves her lungs upon seeing the massacre. Her basket drops, the seed flying everywhere. 

Splashes of blood lay on their hay-filled beds, feathers scattered. There are no eggs left and only two chickens remain alive, nervously huddling in the corner. Claw marks are left on the door, a trail of half-melted ice on the ground. The blood dribbles off the beds from crimson icicles. 

This couldn’t be the work of a fox. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin stares at the ceiling of his tent. Tree branches sway as a puppet show made especially for him. He hadn’t slept since waking up the night prior, glued to Moomintroll. So it lays, waiting for daylight to come. 

The scar on his heart, he thought, was something of his imagination. It isn’t a mad bruise, puffing and red, rather it’s solemn-looking, a gentle reminder of the worst night of his life. And the nightmares to come with it, it’s enough to tip the glass of his sanity. But last night he had seen it again, clear as day. In the river stream, it’s easy to mistake something as a birthmark, smudge, or something innocent. But the mirror never lies, isn’t that what people say?

Snufkin lets out a large sigh, choking mid-breath. The air from his lungs came out as foggy as one would in the dead of winter. He quickly covers his mouth, eyes bulging wide. Was that too his imagination? 

In what could be a few seconds or a minute entirely, he lets out his held breath once more. It comes out shakily, shallow. Thankfully, there is no fog. Snufkin’s head flops back onto the hard ground, laughing despite himself. Here he is! Seeing things that aren’t there! 

He rubs his tired eyes, taking it as a problem from lack of sleep. And why wouldn’t it be? Often he would stare into space, seeing dots that weren’t there. What’s the stretch of having _fog_ in his vision _?_ Nothing to worry over. 

Still, Snufkin wishes to seek help. No amount of self-talk will erase the scar on his heart. What did it mean, if anything? So while laying awake last night, he thought of the person to ask. If anyone knew, it was Too-Ticky.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

“One must aim for th’ head, not to ruin the pelt,” Too-Ticky offers advice to her guest if they ever found themselves hunting. They had caught her at an _awkward_ time, hand deep into the skin of a small nibling. She had found it on her evening stroll, stuck in a trap. No such things were allowed in Moominvalley, so she destroyed the contraption. And not one to waste, she took the nibling home, thanking the creature for its sacrifice. 

Not hearing a word she spoke, Snufkin stares, eyes huge, at the small handgun sitting on the table. If anything, he believed Too-Ticky to be a pacifist. Which isn’t far from the truth, she only used the weapon for protection. 

A winter ago Snufkin wouldn’t see the necessity for having a firearm. After all, there are no monsters in Moominvalley. However, now is an entirely different story. 

Too-Ticky has a talent for butchering. After a quick sharpening of a knife, she could peel off the skin with a few strokes, its fur dropping to the floor. She thinks of what to make from the nibbling, perhaps carve a ring from its bone. Holding the nails in her mouth, she hammers the pelt to the wall to dry. 

“Anyhow,” she says, turning to wash her paws sticky with dry blood, “what brings ye here?” 

Snufkin takes his eyes off the firearm. “Have you heard of The Lady of the Cold?” 

To-Ticky turns off the faucet. “What did ye say?” 

“I met her - this winter.” His face falls. “She did something to me.”

She rushes over, grabbing either of his shoulders. “ _What?!”_

Snufkin glances over her, eyes beady, glinting. “I saw her, in flesh-and-blood. There was snow dripping from her gown,” he mutters, scared from her reaction. 

Too-Ticky stumbles to a chair, sitting down wobbly. Her hand grips the end of the table so tight her paw turns white. “And she saw ye’?” 

“Yes,” he replies, eyes fixed on her pale paw.

Her face grows stormy. 

“What do I do?” he asks weakly. 

“I don’t know,” she attempts to keep calm, to clear her face of terror. “I never met a’body that survived.” 

Snufkin’s heart goes icy, the awful realization bears down on him that he’s completely, utterly alone. 

“There must be a reason ye’ lived. Tak’ that as comfort.” She nods, paw rubbing her slacken face. 

Snufkin swallows dryly, finding no comfort in the fact. “I’m taking,” he mutters, taking a moment to clear his throat, “you don’t know of curses?” 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snork, having not gotten his breakfast, leaves his office in a fury. It isn’t so much the protein he’s missing, it’s the _caffeine._ Thirty- _two_ minutes late! He checks his watch. Scratch that, _thirty-four!_

In the kitchen, he sees the bag of feed laying beside the screen door. No coffee sitting on the stove, no eggs sizzling in the pan. Worry isn’t the first thing in his mind, it’s far from it. Often she puts her _pets_ in front of others, forgetting the rest of the world. And perhaps that’s a fault of himself, Snork thinks. Much too often did he care about the logistics of things, not the people behind them. 

With a deep sigh, Snork unclutches his fist. He shouldn’t take out his frustrations on others, especially his sister. But long has he grown tired of taking care of her, a task he never asked for. That, of course, isn’t a fault of her own. 

Snork follows the trail of spilled feed, to the path to their chicken coop. The air feels thicker, damper than mornings prior. A thick fog rises from the ground, sending goosebumps down his spine. Upon reaching the door, he keeps his breathing as calm and level as he can. Something is _off._

Snorkmaiden pulls the corpse tighter, blood seeping into her fur. Her eyes go right through Snork peers through the door, as if he is made of glass. “Ernest is still alive, I can feel her heart.” 

Its neck lay limp, frightened eyes forever staring. 

The scene is too much to process at once. What he does process, however, is getting his sister out of here. He needs to get her home, clean her up, and clean this _mess_ up. His mind goes through the steps again, as he has countless times taking care of her. Snork steps forward slowly. “You need to give it to me.” 

“It’s all right, really,” she speaks to the corpse rather than her brother. She manages to lift its head, the eyes now staring at Snork. “I’m supposed to take care of you.” 

Snork takes another step steadily, paw outstretched. “Stop,” he warns. Snorkmaiden always is stoic, but now it seems her grip on reality dithered. He sees a pile of bloody bones and feathers laying in melted snow. Every bone is stripped of its skin, nothing left to waste. Except for Ernest, who must have died from fright. 

Tears swell in Snork’s eyes - _I’m supposed to take care of you._ How true those words are to him, and she didn’t even know it. 

“What’s wrong?” she says. Snorkmaiden hadn’t seen him cry since they were small, separated from their parents. “Why are you crying?” 

Snork creeps forward slowly on rubbery legs, shaking his head. “Nothing is wrong, it’s okay,” he says, choking back a cry. “Let me fix this.”

“You can fix Ernest?” she asks, completely believing her brother. 

He gives a panicked nod. “I can - just give it to me.”

“ _Her,”_ she corrects.

“Yes, give _her_ to me.” Now in front of her, Snork holds out a shaky paw. 

Snorkmaiden looks at her brother, then Ernest. Seeing if anything hides in the shadows - any false motives. Of course, this her _brother -_ and he always did what’s best for her. 

She places Ernest’s limp corpse into Snork’s paw, hesitantly letting go. 

“Thank you,” he says between a swallow. “Go clean up - I’ll clean up here.”

She leaves without a fight, saying goodbye to each of her pets, deceased and alive. He counts two minutes in his head before following suit, making a phone call.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin takes large gulps of wood-scented air as if that would ease his nerves. His visit to the bathhouse proved to be cumbersome, not doing a thing to solve the fear in his gut. They talked the entire afternoon about spells and curses, nothing of which resembled that of Snufkin’s... _whatever_ it may be. He spoke vaguely of the scar on his chest, not speaking of its resemblance to a snowflake. Other than trivial, his problems haven’t become that - _problems._ Simply inconveniences. And perhaps that is all that they will be, if lucky. So why waste time worrying? Snufkin never was a fan of such a thing. Despite this, Too-Ticky promises to do her research, to speak with witches in the wood. And that is comforting. So here he walks to Moominhouse, seeking out its warmth once more. 

There seem to be no movements inside Moominhouse, from outside the window, that is. Opening the door with hesitation, Snufkin waits to hear _something -_ laughing, chatter, but there is only silence. He leans back against the door to kick off his boots. 

Tip-toeing into the kitchen, he sees a piping hot bowl sitting at the table, with a teacup sitting beside it. Evidently, _someone_ is here - given the smoke rising from the dish. 

As he ventures around the table, he remembers the tale of _Goldilocks,_ laughing quietly to himself. His stomach clenches with hunger as he sees dumplings, carrots, and peas boiled in the milky stew - decorated with freshly cut herbs. Not wanting to steal the bear’s porridge, he sits opposite to the dish, awkwardly twiddling his thumbs. 

The oven door slams, following an eruption of curses from the kitchen. Snufkin nearly leaps from his chair, appalled at such outburst. 

From the doorway comes Moomintroll, oven mitts on both paws, carrying an identical bowl to the one sitting on the table. “Snufkin!” he cries upon seeing the other. Color heightens in Moomin’s cheeks, realizing his fatal mistake. “Oh, Snufkin...” 

Snufkin stares at him steadily, a brow raised. “Is this how you speak while I’m not here?” 

Moomin laughs out loud, making up for the silence. “Well,” he begins, having no excuse in mind. He places the china bowl in front of Snufkin, sliding across a spoon. “You made my job easier - I was just about to get you,” he says, ignoring the disdain completely. As if that would get him out of punishment. “Although I’m afraid there won’t be any bread tonight - I burnt the entire loaf.” 

“No worries,” Snufkin hums, lifting the wooden spoon in his paw. “Where is everyone else? Off on their own adventure?” He gently blows off the portion before placing it in his mouth. The warmth hits his tongue like a dam breaking loose, it feels remarkably _good._ Not to mention the taste - it’s nearly enough to make him shed a tear. He’d long forgotten what it’s light to have something home-made. 

Moomin sinks in his chair, sitting opposite to Snufkin, his features suddenly grave. “They went to help Snorkmaiden.”

“Oh?” Snufkin pauses, spoon mid-air. It takes every will in his body not to turn the bowl and chug the entire thing. “Is everything alright?” 

Moomin swirls the spoon in his bowl, shrugging. “Some wild beast got in her chicken coop. I’m not good with,” he pauses, motioning vaguely, “ _grim_ things.”

Snufkin nods understandably, knowing that true. “I wish her all the well. She loved those dear creatures.” He finally eats, unable to pause any further. 

“Knowing her, she’ll probably make tombstones for each of them,” he laughs humorlessly. 

“As she should.” Snufkin chews his lip, thinking. Thinking of the poor nibbling whose skin now lays hanging to dry. “Tell me, Moomintroll, do you think it’s _right?”_

“What do you mean _right_?”

Snufkin takes another spoonful before replying, “If a large creature is famished, should they consume smaller creatures? It’s only the natural way of things.”

“How morbid!” Such thoughts slide over his fur like a wicked snake. “I wouldn’t know - I’m vegetarian.” 

“But you eat my fish, do you not?” Snufkin puts in. 

Moomin’s brows furrow. “Well...yes but fish don’t have feelings.” 

“Do they not? They have eyes like us, a heartbeat like us. Why wouldn’t they have feelings as well?” 

“I don’t like to think about it,” Moomin replies flatly. He truly _does not_ want to think about it. It’s already leaving a pit in his stomach. “All I know is that Snorkmaiden liked those chickens. And it’s a shame _someone_ ate them. Hungry or not.”

“Mm, so if the creature matters to someone, only then are they truly alive.” 

With this, Moomin smiles. “Maybe. I mean, Stinky is dead to me. So you’re not _completely_ wrong.” 

Snufkin laughs. “Funny thing, you are! And talented - did you make this?” 

His ears perk up, seemingly waiting for the question. “Actually! I helped with a portion of it!” 

“You did?” Snufkin exclaims appreciatively. “My, you’ve become quite the cook!” Gone are the days of putting gunpowder in pancakes, it seems. 

Moomin does a little wiggle in his chair, ears flickering back and forth. The compliment soothes him considerably. 

With the conversation seemingly wrapped up, Moomin begins eating his stew, now perfectly cool. Snufkin finishes minutes before the other, sitting politely as the other follows suit. 

“Ah!” Moomin gasps, slamming the empty bowl down. “That was good.” He pats his extended stomach as Snufkin chuckles. 

“That it was,” Snufkin replies. 

They share a moment together, neither speaking. Neither felt like they had to. Then, just as the lightbulb sparks in his mind, Moomin exclaims, “I have an idea!” 

Snufkin cocks an eyebrow. “Do tell.” 

Moomin hops of his chair and circles around the table. Snufkin watches curiously as Moomin bows, one paw extended. “May I have this dance?” 

Although the troll conducted himself with such courteousness, he couldn’t help but stumble on his feet - nearly toppling on Snufkin. “What an honor!” he laughs, placing his paw on Moomin’s. 

Moomin brings his paws to his lips, delicately placing a kiss. Snufkin rolls his eyes, although giving no protest when Moomin pulls him up. As they walk to the living room, Snufkin’s digits curl to hold onto Moomin’s more firmly. Their paws didn’t align _well,_ so Snufkin always has the habit of holding onto Moomin’s thumb. 

Upon entering the room, Moomin lets go - leaving Snufkin standing awkwardly at the door. He walks toward the phonograph, sitting opposite to the couch. The blanket in which Snufkin embroiders sits on the table, waiting to be completed. 

Snufkin watches with a faint murmur of nervousness in his chest as Moomin reaches for a record. “It’s new, well, new for us,” Moomin says. He pulls the record from the slip, gently placing it on the phonograph. “I, uh,” he mumbles, “thought of you while listening to it.” 

Snufkin smiles politely in turn, not sure what to make of it. The nervous energy clamps himself in terror, yet he feels content in this home, safe. As the needle hits the groove, the first few notes echoing in the room, Moomin approaches Snufkin slowly. 

_I can’t stop loving you._

Moomin’s arms wrap around him, Snufkin resting his cheek on his shoulder. The contact makes the fur on Moomin prickle, struggling to keep himself upright. 

_I’ve made up my mind._

They share a glance, Snufkin immersing himself with Moomin’s warm, even breathe. Then Snufkin brings his arms around his neck. “It’s a very nice song,” Snufkin whispers. 

“You think?” Moomin shifts subtly, nothing more than a slow rocking of a ship. He tries to hide his clear delight with fake suave. 

_To live in memory._

“Mm, very much so.” With his eyes closed, Snufkin lets himself be surrounded by warmth. Even Moomin’s warm breath against his neck makes him shudder. 

_Of such an old lonesome time._

Moomin’s paws beg to caress him, to feel all that stands at his command. Rather, he takes Snufkin’s right paw and extends it, the other resting on Snufkin’s hip. Snufkin laughs, his nose crinkling as he’s guided onto the dancefloor by burly arms. It’s no waltz, no gentleman guiding his partner across the floor- it’s missteps and tripping, but perfect in every way. 

Their dissimilarities between them could be seen by anyone - two sides of the same coin. There isn’t a bit of fat on Snufkin, the other clearly making up for it - thighs plump, stomach plumper. Yet they fit perfectly, paw in paw. Neither would change a thing about the other. 

Growing brave, Moomin picks up the pace. He swoops Snufkin off his feet, twirling him around as they both burst out into laughter. In the back of Snufkin’s mind is _The Lady,_ far from his first thought. Here with Moomintroll, it seems to diminish the rest of the world. As they slow, their eyes growing dizzy, their laughter subsides. 

Snufkin’s toes reach the floor once more, still holding tight onto his dance partner. He closes his eyes and draws a breath, letting the music wash over him. 

Moomin finds himself turning rosy. 

Snufkin’s lips slide to his throat, searching for his pulse underneath the layers of fur. Work his way down, he drags his fox-like teeth, barely grazing his skin. Moomin shivers, sliding his arm around Snufkin. 

Something curious glitters in Snufkin’s dark eyes, reminding Moomin of a cat stalking a mouse in a grassy field. 

“Would you like to-?” Moomin begins in a whisper.

“Yes,” Snufkin finishes eagerly. “I would.” 

A quiet breath escapes Moomin. He keeps his face still, mind busy with thoughts and plans. It isn’t until Snufkin takes a step back that he breaks free. 

“Come on then, we don’t have all night!” 

A smile curves Moomin’s lips, his blood quickened with excitement. 

When they reach Moomin’s room, realization dawns on Snufkin. He places a paw over his heart - _the scar._ His heart stops in his throat, cursing himself for forgetting such a thing! 

“Er, Moomintroll?” 

Moomin stops his hastening attempt to clean up the room - hiding drawings and trash underneath the bed, fluffing up pillows, turning on the lamp. “Yes?” 

Snufkin swallows his pride. “I have a suggestion. Or inquiry. Perhaps neither of the two.” He cringes - that didn’t come out well at all. 

“Oh?” Moomin plops on the bed, glancing at Snufkin with curiosity. 

Snufkin stares intently at Moomin’s feet dangling from the bed, kicking back and forth. This will be easier to say without looking into Moomin’s set face. “Could we do it without the lights?” 

Moomin blinks in bewilderment, legs stopping mid-air. What a strange ask - he never voiced this before. He thinks momentarily of what that would mean. He wants to see the cowlicks in his dark-red hair, count the freckles before they met the summer’s sun, his smiling mouth whispering _his_ name. And in the dark, he couldn’t see _anything._

“Suppose it’s more... _modest_ ,” Snufkin adds suddenly, his confidence dwindling.

Moomin snaps back into reality. “What part of what we’re doing is _modest?_ ” he teases in good nature. 

Snufkin holds his elbow, folding his arm across his chest. Suppose this is going to be harder than he originally thought. He could always wear his undergown if it came down to it. 

Moomin stops his laughter abruptly upon seeing Snufkin’s seemingly embarrassed reaction. “Oh! You really want to try this, dear?” he quickly corrects. 

A lovely warmth bubbles in Snufkin’s stomach, hiding whatever guilt threatens to emerge. “Could we?” 

“Anything is worth a try,” he shrugs. 

Snufkin’s tense shoulder slacken. “Sit back and I will do the rest.” Moomin obeys and Snufkin reaches down to bring his cloak over his head. 

In the faint light of the lamp, Moomin could make out his stained undershirt. His hair falls on his shoulders curling in opposite directions. But what strikes Moomin is how _small_ he looks. A rush of protectiveness goes through him suddenly. 

Snufkin works with his rope belt, unknotting it, and allows his worn pants to fall silently. The belt is the only strand keeping the piece in place, without it the pants wouldn’t stay wrapped around his shrinking waist. 

Moomin watches intently, mouth slightly ajar. He isn’t aware of himself at this moment, all his focus being on Snufkin.

Snufkin walks forward silently, reaching below the lampshade to twist the switch. It is only then that he removes his undershirt, the fabric that hides his growing scar. The trousers come off lastly, pilling on top of the rest. Moomin blinks away the light spots flying every which way, not expecting the weight suddenly climbing on top of him. His paws reach out in the dark in an attempt to help the mumrik, but they do little to aid him. 

Snufkin lays down on the troll, his cheek falling against his chest, nestling into the fur. “You’re warm,” he whispers. Snufkin liked every part of Moomin - his softness, his curves, and, most importantly, his heart. Never has he met a creature with such a large, boundless heart. In the worst of times, Snufkin felt terrible for stretching his heart to the limit, with how much sorrow it can manage. But now, laying in his arms, nothing else matters. 

“And your paws are cold,” Moomin retorts as Snufkin digs deeper into his fur, grabbing at the warmth. “No matter, I’ll warm you up.” 

Snufkin snorts, hearing the wink in his words. “You better do so quickly.” Seeing it as the next step, he shifts himself upward and turns Moomin’s snout to the side. Snufkin brings his mouth up to his, kissing as they had the very first time - hesitant, testing the waters. 

Moomin’s paw reaches to Snufkin’s back, sliding down until meeting his rear to pull him closer. So he can kiss without bending his head. Although Snufkin is content with the way they are now, Moomin’s mouth demands more. His tongue prods against Snufkin’s lips, a moan escaping Moomin’s open mouth. With hesitancy, Snufkin allows his to open as well, their tongues threading together roughly. There’s no fight for dominance, Moomin obviously winning that battle. Snufkin’s tongue simply _exists_ while Moomin’s curls around his, ravaging every open cranny. 

“Oh, Snuf,” Moomin suddenly cries, his head whipping back. 

Snufkin hums in agreement while whipping his mouth with his sleeve. 

“You can drive a man _wild,”_ he mutters huskily, softly petting his back. After a beat, Moomin’s free paw feels around Snufkin’s frame until it reaches his face. Snufkin’s mouth is forced into an O shape as he squeezes his cheeks. “Just feeling for you.” Moomin lets go of his grip, now placing his pad on Snufkin’s stout lips. They feel softer, puffier than normal. And, oh, how he pains to see them. See _all_ of him. “Are you sure we can’t do this with the lights on?” 

Panic hits him then, like a match to dry kindling. Snufkin removes Moomin’s paw, pushing himself up to straddle him. “I was... _looking forward_ to trying it.” If 'looking forward' meant last-minute planning, that is. Knowing Moomin well, he wouldn’t dare _disappoint_ Snufkin. 

“O-Oh!” Moomin sputters. He reaches for Snufkin’s abdomen, grabbing either side. “Then let’s do it! Really, it sounds like a grand plan! It’s just new, is all.” He rubs his thumbs against the curve of Snufkin’s waist.

The way Moomin flipped like a coin sends a smile to Snufkin’s lips. At the same time, it saddens him, although he can’t quite explain _why._ “Shall we?” 

“Allow me,” Moomin teases, much too sweet to be flirtatious as he intended. 

Snufkin allows his legs to spread some, still straddling the troll. He stays absolutely still, squeezing his eyes shut as Moomin’s paw slides between his legs. The touch is feathery, Moomin’s digits merely swirling against his lips, letting the folds act as they would. 

“You’re…” Moomin begins, narrowing his eyes in the dark, “you’re awfully _cold._ ” He doesn’t stop, rather, barely probing a digit inside Snufkin. Finding it to be much the same on the inside as it were on the outside. “You’re usually much warmer.”

Snufkin shudders as if to prove his point. “That’s to be expected, yes?” He bites his lower lip, thinking the excuse over. “It’s been some time since we’ve...done _this._ ” 

“To you, maybe, but for me - it was only a few nights of sleep ago. The night before hibernation?” His paw curls inside, slowly bringing it toward himself. “It gave me some _wonderful_ dreams, I’ll have you know.” The words drip off his tongue, becoming drunk with the flames burning inside him. 

Adoration unravels in Snufkin’s heart as Moomin works him open gingerly - as if one wrong move could shatter him. The rational side of him _hated_ how dependent he had become on love, how he couldn’t see himself without Moomintroll by his side. But his heart is set ablaze by love, and only Moomin can extinguish it. 

Snufkin takes hold of Moomin’s arm, tapping it twice. With that, Moomin removes his digits from inside, a string of wetness following. 

Moomin doesn’t hold back his groan as Snufkin runs a digit down his cherry-red length that pokes behind him. One, two strokes later and Snufkin curves his paw around him. His lover’s name wretches from his throat, deep from which. “Snuf...kin…” 

A chill works down his spine from hearing his name. With his knees on either side of Moomin’s hips, he ruts himself against his member, his paw now supporting his weight. 

Moomin screams Snufkin’s name once more, his toes and paws curling onto the sheets. Through his night eyes, Snufkin can see Moomin’s eyes as blue slits, the smell of sweat heady in the air. Then he realizes they are a step ahead of themselves. 

“Is... _it_ still in your cabinet?” Snufkin asks, not bothering to clarify what _it_ means. 

Moomin exerts tremendous self-control not to thrust his hips. He grunts, “Should be,” through clenched teeth. 

Snufkin removes himself, stepping carefully over Moomin, and onto the floor. With a claw extended, he picks the lock on the right drawer. His paw twists and turns until he hears the _click._

“Find it?”

Snufkin _tsks_ , lifting the jar into the spilling moonlight. “Only but a few droplets left. No matter, it will be enough.” He unscrews the lid and scoops out what’s left before lathering it on. 

“Sorry, love,” he says, feeling Snufkin’s weight sinking back into the bed. “Tell me if it’s too painful, okay?”

Snufkin braces himself on his arms, over him. “I will,” he says. 

Moomin reaches out in the dark and finds his hips, helping him lower himself. Snufkin pushes his legs further as Moomin’s cock pushes into him. As Moomin groans, Snufkin holds his breath. The tip is barely in, the rest like a cork that refuses to fit back inside a wine bottle. 

“Does it hurt?” Moomin whispers, eyes intent on where he _assumes_ Snufkin is. 

“Manageable,” he mutters. Snufkin rocks slightly, utilizing all his energy into it. He doesn’t waste what little energy he has on speaking. Further and further it slips into him. It’s much too wide, too fast, but all too _warm._

An incoherent noise escapes Moomin once more as Snufkin sits fully on the softness of his body. Their second dance of the evening begins - Snufkin clings to Moomin’s chest as he rolls his hips. Moomin gasps, finally letting go of a scream bent up inside him. 

Snufkin’s claws dig deeper into Moomin’s skin as he pushes forward.Despite the exertion, his rolling slows considerably. Snufkin rolls once, takes a breath, then does so again. The pace is hopelessly slow, Moomin’s heat only flirting with pleasure. 

“I-I, I’m sorry,” Snufkin sputters, struggling to catch his breath. His body seemed trapped in a river, the currents pulling him down. “It’s all I can man-manage.” He rests his head against Moomin’s snout, mouth agape, no longer moving. 

Moomin’s eyes widened in worry. He swallows deeply, wanting the next words to come out clear as day. “Are you okay? Do you want me to take over, my lamb?” He uses the pet name only spoken in bed, in what he hopes is comforting. "We can try again, or stop altogether." 

“I’m okay,” he says, then comes a tentative nod. 

"Are you sure?" he asks again, wanting Snufkin to completely, utterly sure of himself.

"I'm sure." 

Moomin wraps his arms around Snufkin’s back, their bodies no longer connected. Easily, for Snufkin weighs very little to the troll. Moomin flips him around as smoothly as possible. Now it’s Snufkin’s turn to lay on the bed, his head propped on the pillow. 

Moomin braces his paws beside Snufkin’s shoulders, above Snufkin’s chest. Sweat droplets fall onto Snufkin’s skin like hot raindrops. Desire mounts within himself, despite being unable to see his love. His imagination takes over - seeing Snufkin’s wonderful body in his mind. 

Snufkin gasps as he feels Moomin’s thumb brush over the bud of his nipple, circling. Snufkin’s knees draw up involuntary as Moomin tilts his face with his free paw. He bends to kiss Snufkin, Snufkin allowing it. 

Heat surfaces throughout Snufkin, his chest warm for the first time in _weeks._ The troll’s fur tickles his breasts, stomach. 

The kiss breaks as Moomin falls back, one paw working Snufkin open, the other aligning himself blindly. Moomin’s palm brushes along his inner thigh until meeting his coarse curls. Working lower, he finds the entrance to his body. Moomin strokes the softness until it brings forth a slick substance. He uses it to lube his own member, over and over. 

Snufkin swallows sounds that threaten to rise in his throat. He twists in the bed, itching with the heat. 

At last, Moomin decides that both covered plenty. “I’m ready to try again. Are you, love??” 

“Y-Yes. More than,” Snufkin chokes, his voice sounds strange to his own ears, clouded and thick. His heels delve into the mattress as Moomin urges him upward. 

Moomin’s cock slips once, twice, until finally taking him in much smoother than previous. Without much self-control, Moomin brings himself backward and thrusts inside. The back of the bed slams into the wall over and over like waves in an ocean. 

Sweet nothings slip from the troll’s mouth, babbling compliments left and right. Moomin’s expression is delirious, nearly making Snufkin laugh if it weren’t for the ecstasy reeling his mind. Rather, Snufkin caresses his body, his paws running up and down his chest, stomach, and snout. Snufkin kisses the parts of him he could reach, mostly the curve of his snout. 

“Finish for me, Moomintroll, won’t you?” Snufkin pulls him close, whispering silkily into his ear. 

Except, Moomin isn’t listening. It’s too keen on rolling, again and again, growing fiercer by the second. He pants between cries of Snufkin’s name. 

Moomin withdraws himself suddenly, pumping his member while groaning. Normally, he would look down at Snufkin, bare, exposing himself for him. And Snufkin would look back, into his eyes. But now he has to imagine it. Imagine Snufkin’s chest rising and falling, staring up at him unraveling himself, spending his love. 

With a sharp cry, Moomin comes. His entire body convulses as the mad pleasure sends himself into a spiral. Snufkin’s stomach is painted, large brushstrokes expelled one by one onto his canvas. Snufkin flinches with each one, albeit not out of pain, merely surprise. 

Moomin catches his breath, letting sweat fall from his face. “Your turn,” he says, halfway proud. He backs from his position before lying flat on his stomach. Snufkin wriggles with anticipation as Moomin slides his paws beneath his bottom, pulling him toward his snout. 

Moomin’s tongue finds him with wet strokes. Carefully he begins a rhythm: prodding inside Snufkin’s hole with the tip of his tongue, licking and separating the folds, and breathing hot breath onto the delicate flesh. Snufkin cries as his feet dig deeper and deeper into the mattress, Moomin’s ears perking as the cry reaches him. 

Feeling beyond proud of himself, Moomin works mercilessly. Snufkin’s paw covers his mouth, muffling the moans as the feeling inside his gut builds. All at once, it meets its summer, blazing through his body. His paw does nothing to quieten the scream of his lover’s name. Dense spasms roll through him, his knees close against Moomin’s face, losing all sense of self-control. 

Moomin stays in place, prolonging the pleasure with soft, feathery licks. After the last few twitches of pleasure past, Moomin removes himself. 

Snufkin’s knees fall flat on the bed. And, at last, Moomin collapses beside Snufkin, both their chests heaving. The blue light of the night creeps through the window - not a word spoken. For a moment, Moomin isn’t aware of his surroundings, his mind thrown into a kaleidoscope. He doesn’t even notice when Snufkin leaves the bed shakily, his toes carefully reaching the floor, to retrieve his clothes. 

Once in the bathroom, clothes bundled in his paws, Snufkin stares at himself in the mirror. He stares blankly at himself, at the spiderweb of a scar on his chest. It isn’t going away, at last, he acknowledges. 

As a light flickers on in the distance, Moomin slowly turns his head. Snufkin must be in the bathroom, washing up for he can hear the sink run. Moomin shuffles toward the edge of the bed, where Snufkin had laid. He doesn’t notice how _cold_ it felt, how it should be the opposite. Rather, he switches the lamp on once more, encompassing the room in low, warm light. 

Snufkin comes out minutes later, his hair soaking, wearing only his undershirt. Gently, he walks toward the cabinet, to the jar sitting with its lid adjacent. 

Moomin’s blood seemed to have slowed, gently thrumming. He lays in the afterglow, utterly drained. With the rest of his clothes on and jar intact, Snufkin throws his dress over with a shudder, happy at last to be reunited. Then, he remembers the rest of his hidden treasures. 

Moomin smiles as he watches Snufkin dig through the desk’s cabinets. One paw finds the hidden pipe, the other searching for the sack in the back of the drawer. Moomin once found the smell of tobacco _horrendous,_ but now it comforts him. It was Moomin’s idea to keep a pipe in the bedroom, Snufkin not able to sleep an entire night without it. 

Snufkin pulls out the knapsack with a click of his tongue. He shakes it upside down, with nothing coming out. “Empty,” he says the obvious. 

“Seems we’re running low on _several_ things. We can go to town some time?” Moomin turns on his side, head supported by his paw. 

“No,” he replies, no room for argument. “I have plenty back at my tent. About the time I take my leave, anyhow.” 

“Oh?” Moomin now sits up in bed, letting his back rest on the headboard. “Aren’t you staying the night?” 

Snufkin pulls open the window. “You know how I feel about _insinuations._ When they find my tent empty, me resting in your bed, what will they assume?” 

“Well,” he shrugs with a wink, “they wouldn’t be _wrong._ ” 

Snufkin shakes his head, his lovely _bed-head_ Moomin notes. “I do not care for my reputation, however, I can’t stand the _knowing_ looks come morning. Good evening.” He puts one foot out the window, only then realizing he left his boots at the front door. 

Moomin smiles at his friend, adoration rich in his eyes. “Let me walk you out.” He rips off the covers and jumps onto the floor, his knees and hips popping. 

Snufkin reluctantly takes his paw with an adoring smile, guiding him out of the room and downstairs. 

“I figured they would’ve been back by now,” Moomin says while twiddling his paws. He looks out the stained glass above the door, seeing nothing but black.

Snufkin looks up from tying his boots, one knee on the floor. “Did they say how long they would be?” 

“No, but-” he stops, narrowing his eyes. “Oh! I think that’s them!” 

“ _What_?” Snufkin panics, mouth going dry. 

“I see a light bobbing! It must be their lantern!” Moomin peers through the window, hands held to his face like binoculars. 

“Then I will go through the back, cheerio!” With one boot still untied, he stands. 

“Hold on Snuf!” But it’s too late, Snufkin is already halfway across the room. Moomin trips on the curve of the carpet to catch up with him, ignoring the pang in his foot. When he catches the veranda door, Snufkin is already at the bottom of the stairs, pausing on top of the large stones leading the way. “Wait _one_ second!” he manages through loud pants, “I have something to tell you!” 

“Is it _that_ important?” Snufkin huffs, turning with his paws on his hips. 

With only the light from the house leading the way, Moomin hops down the stairs. He meets Snufkin, whose boots tap onto the stone. Moomin curls his paw against Snufkin’s wrist. Snufkin looks up into Moomin’s heavy-lidded eyes, reminded instantly of what they just did. 

“I had a lovely time with you,” Moomin whispers, his voice coaxed in honey. 

“Oh, Moomme,” Snufkin laughs, his shoulders relaxing. He wraps his arms around Moomin’s neck, tipping his head back as he continues the laughter. 

Moomin chuckles, much softer than Snufkin, and wraps his paws around him as if he weighed as much as a flower, bringing him close. After a beat, Moomin removes his paws and reaches for one of Snufkin’s. Taking the small paw in his own, Moomin carefully traces the words _I love you_ onto his palm with the tips of his claw. 

Snufkin’s eyes shine, feeling nearly faint at his adoration. He, in turn, takes Moomin’s paw and writes _I love you too_ , pausing after every letter. Once complete, he steps away. “I hope nothing breaks us apart,” Snufkin mutters, eyes locked on the ground. “I hope more than anything.” He swallows hard.

Moomin furrows his brow, thinking back to his earlier conversation with Mamma. _Make him talk._ “Apart? Why do you say that?” He reaches out, to hold his paw, but is interrupted by a distant door slam. He turns, seeing the veranda door still open - realizing it must have been the front. When he turns back, Snufkin is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiii a couple friends and I made a moomin server. it's for small-time creators to share their work and get insight from others in the community since they're often overlooked. 
> 
> you have to be 16-plus to join, but damn I hope anyone under 16 isn't reading this work. get outta here, go read some Fine Literature. stay in school. 
> 
> https://discord.gg/rBNBBja


	3. sleepless lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very happy birthday to two people in my server!! you know who you are ;))

“There were strings, white strings, that came out of its head!” Little My’s voice becomes growled with excitement as she recollects the corpses scattered in Snorkmadien’s barn. “And the skin was puffed up! And _purple!”_

“Stop it!” Moomin cries, covering his ears. “I told you I didn’t want to hear it!” 

“My, that’s enough,” Moominmamma warns as she passes through the room. Her face closes up and My knows that will be the end of it. 

The siblings sit on the carpet, watching the flames dance and pucker in the hearth - shadowing the troll’s white fur with yellow and orange rays. Moomin brings his knees close, resting his head. 

My leans forward and pokes the fire with a rod. “Taking you had a good time tonight.” The fire snaps back with its tongue of a flame. 

Moomin hesitates. “How…?” He meant to ask more but isn’t going to give My the satisfaction. So he shakes his head, turning his attention back to the fire. 

“Such a slob. Leaving your dishes on the table,” she cackles, ripping a double sheet of newspaper and tossing it in. “So what did you two do while we were doing all the work?” 

“That’s none of your business.” Moomin holds his paws to the flames as they jump, not for warmth but to give him something to do. 

“Oh. I see.” She nods with a devilish smile. “Say no more.” 

Moomin can’t hide his smile, his face flushing. 

“You’re nothing short of disgusting,” she says lovingly. “You and my brother both.” 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin manages to sneak around the house, stopping to peek around the corners, unspotted. Luckily he has plenty of practice of leaving the crime scene. Such as, not walking in the mud, rather the grass - to prevent bootprints come morning. He hops on the bridge from the grass, knowing he’s made it. 

He sighs, hands folding behind his back. His heels click when he turns, looking up the blue tower. A surge of butterflies take off in his stomach, all worry deserting him. 

‘ _That Moomintroll…’_ he thinks foolishly. A song strikes him, in the chance of tempting his love to the window to thank him for such a wonderful evening. (Of course, he would never admit that.) Reaching in his pocket, he pulls out his silver harmonica, his oldest friend. He taps it against his palm, thinking of a tune that will suit the mood. Something upbeat, yes, but something slow to lull them both to sleep. Lullabies have a tendency of appearing homely, but having a horrendous message to them. And perhaps that fits too. 

Deciding on a tune, he allows his eyes to close as he brings the instrument upward. He sucks in a deep breath before bringing the metal to his lips. Before he can blow out a single breath, however, something _bites_ him. Yes, that was the only true way to describe it. 

His head flies back, feeling as if a snake had latched itself on his lips. Looking queerly at the harmonica, he tries to reason the sudden flash of pain. There is nothing. 

In the back of his mind, he knows something is _wrong._ He tries once more, having forgotten about the tune altogether. He simply places the harmonica on his lips, as if he is playing. The pain strikes him once more, this time stronger. He tries to yank the harmonica away, but it doesn’t budge, glued hard onto his lips - _frozen._

He throws terrified glances down, his neck creaking, although unable to see the harmonica. He pulls, screaming muffled as he peels off the metal from his flesh. Tears fall down his face as it finally gives, resting in his paw with skin sticking to the reed. 

All that comes out of him is a helpless moan as fresh blood drips onto the bridge. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

The sound of a sewing machine _clunking_ back and forth between bobbin and thread forces Moomin’s eyes open from a night of blissful sleep. He stares at the ceiling, fighting the urge to doze off again as the sound stops. It isn’t a minute later it starts up again, ruining any chance of sleeping in. 

With a large yawn, he rolls off and up from the bed, stretching his arms to the sky. Through the curtains shines the morning sun, cloudless and transparent. 

He leaves his room and walks down the hallway toward the room with the open door, with one paw on his stomach. Halfway there, he pauses. The office door hasn’t been opened in a year - it hadn’t dawned on him until then, seeing it for himself. 

Those terrible nights full of dry coughs, of flowers wilting away, come rushing back in his mind like a trap latching onto his flesh. With a sigh, his fist tightening, he continues to the white room, letting his paw rest on the frame of the door that needs repainting. One side brand new, the other old and cracking. It seems everyone has been too afraid to step inside the office for repairs, or anything else for that matter. 

The room has a distinct smell of an old library, which makes sense - given the large collection of maps and books. Cobwebs now lay on the model of the lighthouse, a dream that never was. 

Mamma sits at the desk, on the familiar black chair. Moomin flashes back to nearly twenty years ago, peeking inside the office when he was a toddler, running to _him_ , climbing on top of his lap. And no matter how busy he was, he always made time for his son. 

The room seems smaller now, emptier. Like a piece of it is missing. 

Snufkin is there too, watching intently at Mamma’s handiwork with both paws behind his back. 

“It’s a bit old-fashioned, but still works like a charm,” Mamma says above the machine. 

Snufkin nods. “As most things are. A little dust does the soul good.” 

Moomin stares thoughtfully at the back of Snufkin’s head, a smile curving his lips without him knowing. Tears swell behind his eyes, his ears and throat burning. He wipes furiously at his eyes until the feeling subsides. 

Mamma lifts her foot off the pedal, grabs her golden scissors and cuts the thread. With a _whoosh,_ she flaps the blanket to rid it of any strands, holding it up to Snufkin.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Mamma!” Snufkin gasps, a paw over his gaping mouth. Scraps of fabric and embroidery fill the quilt’s exterior, the backing an old sheet. 

“Oh, nonsense,” Mamma chuckles, “you did everything yourself.” She holds the quilt out, letting Snufkin take it in paw. He runs his claw across the decorative stitches, wondering how she did it free-hand. “You should be proud.” 

Snufkin blushes as he shrugs his shoulders, secretly finding pride in his work. Without much sleep (the nightmare still prominent), he had come to the house in the wee hours in the morning. With one look, Mamma had rushed to the medicine cabinet for a jar of ointment, patting his botched lips gently with a cotton ball. Luckily, there were no questions - only a proposition to finish what he started. 

“It’s beautiful,” Moomin says, voice a tad nasal. They both glance in his direction, unaware of his presence. 

“Moomin,” Snufkin mouths, quickly turning his head to hide his blush. 

“Isn’t it?” Mamma hums. 

A paw finds its way to Snufkin’s waist, resting upon the cloth of his smock. Without risking a stumble of words, Moomin only nods, leaning forward in hopes to see Snufkin’s face. 

Snufkin’s eyes quickly shift to Moomin, then back toward the ground - his bushy tail flicking back and forth uneasily. 

Mamma chuckles once more, beaming at the loving sight. It doesn’t last long, however, until Moomin’s smile fades. The thoughts come back, the nostalgia for lost days. 

Snufkin lifts his head, looking into Moomin’s sad and battered eyes. Without a word exchanged, he knows what Moomin is feeling, thinking. He loops the blanket around one arm, then grabbing Moomin’s paw by the other. Moomin blinks, first staring at his paw then his face. 

“What happened to your mouth?” Moomin says suddenly, eyes narrowing with worry, confusion. 

There’s a moment of heavy silence, everyone in the room finding it painful. None more than Snufkin, whose heart lodges in his throat. 

“Ah,” Snufkin mumbles, forcing jollity in his voice, “old habits die hard, yes?” Alluding that he had picked them. 

Neither seems satisfied with that answer. Fearing another bit of silence, Moomin speaks, “First your chin, now your lips, what’s next?” He laughs without humor. 

Snufkin smiles, having no answer in mind. Rather, an excuse, a rather overused one at that. “I think I ought to fish while they are active, in the morning.” He gives a half-bow to Mamma, thanking her silently. 

Moomin looks back over his shoulders, watching Snufkin leave the room in a rush. He must still be in a knot from last night, such a funny thing! To think a creature so carefree as Snufkin could care about presumptions. And what presumptions _were_ there? Being in the same room together? What could _that_ give away? Certainly not that they spent an evening together. Moomin smiles as he tries to make sense of Snufkin’s logic, finding it all to be a bit silly. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Mymble Jr. sits down on a tree stump, re-reading the last line of the poem she wrote. Her paw aches from writing so much, but it’s not like that’s an excuse to stop. A word clangs in her brain, fighting to break through the fog. _Benevolence,_ no that’s not quite it. _Devotedness_? No, no - not that either. 

She sighs, throwing her head back and letting the sun warm her face. Maybe there is no word to describe this. No word worthy enough, that is. Some things are better off nameless, undeserving to be danced on the tongue like some silly speech. This is much grander. 

Leaving the poem incomplete, she closes her notebook, tucking it inside her sactual. 

“There ye are, with your heads in the clouds again,” Too-Ticky says with a shake of the head. She appears from the trail with her paws in her pockets, as they normally are. 

Mymble springs up, unable to hide her excitement. When Too-Ticky phoned her, asking for _her_ help, she couldn’t help but dance on the tips of her toes. ‘ _A bookworm like ye would know where a special library would be,’_ she had said. Mymble couldn’t help but think of _‘bookworm’_ being a pet name, a secret, indulgent thought. 

“About time!” Mymble huffs playfully, with her paws on her hips. “Don’t you know better to keep a lady waiting?” 

“Why bother when I already have her wooed.” Too-Ticky smirks, continuing to walk past Mymble down the path.

Mymble’s false confidence flees just like that. She’s left a stumbling mess, stumbling over her words _and_ her feet to catch up with her. “Do you even need me?” Mymble says, deciding to ignore the flirtation. “I’m sure you know every inch of Moominvalley.” 

“Well, yes, but this isn’t Moominvalley, is it?” Too-Tickey retorts. Truthfully, she _did_ know where existed a library. But a normal library didn’t contain what she is looking for. 

“Close enough.” Mymble shrugs. “I hope you don’t take me as some tramp. That’s my brother.” 

Too-Ticky looks up at the mention of Snufkin. She hadn’t given details about the situation, finding it unnecessary. It would only complicate things, and right now, they need clarity. 

“Anyhow,” Mymble continues, filling the silence, “it’s going to be quite a journey. All afternoon, perhaps.” They both look at each other, smiling. Knowing there’s no place they would rather be than together. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Moomin decides on picking alone today, not needing his mother’s help to figure out which mushrooms would kill him. Although Mamma did plant a booklet in his basket, just in case. He had been hoping he would find Snufkin, although expecting these results - the campsite it empty, Snufkin opting to fish somewhere far off. 

He dreams softly as he walks through the forestry, staring up at the slow-moving clouds. Thinking not many thoughts, refusing to do any different. That is, until, he hears a crunching of twigs - someone coming around the bushes. He smells him before he sees him, nearly gagging. 

_Joxter,_ he knows that smell from anywhere. 

The way he walks Moomin doesn’t think he’ll make it much further. He seems almost implacable, taking it one step at a time as if there’s not a care in the world. On is back is a large backpack, masks and trinkets dangling from the pockets. The sight is almost grand - Moomin unable to avert his gaze. 

Joxter, with his head cocked to the side, looks at Moomin a long time, his large eyes fixed on his. Then, at once, he smiles and shows his pointed teeth stained brown from years of tobacco use. “You look like someone that could use some _luck_.”

Moomin blinks. The smell imitated from the traveler is enough to make him gag, a pile of wet leaves sort of reek. “I’m-I’m sorry?” He takes a step back, but Joxter steps forward, face now inches away from Moomin’s. 

“Many wares that I have,” Joxter cackles, “Moomins are no Hemulens, but they buy yes?” He reaches out and grabs in the sleeve of his old coat, claws digging around the wool. 

Moomin watches with nervous eyes, scanning the strange man. He swears that the scarf around his neck _moves -_ slithers even. Then it’s proven - small red beady eyes flicker open, squinting back at the troll. Moomin flenches, suddenly afraid for his _life._ The small weasel yawns lazily in turn. Suppose he picked up a traveler since last time he saw him.

“Aha! Little bastard!” Joxter cheers, pulling out a necklace made from red beads and porcupine quills. He dangles it in front of Moomin. “Luck this will bring you, so you will buy it!” 

Moomin isn’t looking at the jewelry but still at the strange thing wrapped around his shoulders. Joxter shoves it in his face, forcing him to avert his attention. “Oh! Yes, it’s very nice,” he says politely, as Mother raised him to do. “Did you make it?”

Joxter’s brows furrow. “You speak too many words. Buy or not?” 

“No thank you,” Moomin chuckles, paws waving. “I don’t wear that kind of stuff.” 

“ _Du sa att det var slöseri med tid_ (You said it was a waste of time),” Joxter sighs to the thing on his shoulder, shoving the necklace into his pockets. 

Moomin squints, wondering what on earth those two were talking about. 

“Moominvalley is this way, yes?” Joxter turns his head to the right, one paw scratching his long nose. 

“Oh! You’re actually already here!” 

His eyes widened. “This is Moominvalley?” He pauses to glance around the woods in which he stands. He gives a long-winded whistle before continuing, “ _Whaaaat aaaa_ dump. What happened to it?” 

Moomin’s smile fades - how terribly rude! He crosses his arms and pouts, “Well if you don’t like it, you can _leave.”_

Joxter laughs cheerfully, both paws on his stomach. “Joke! It was only a joke! You are easy to rile up like your father. Cheerio!” He waves him off, his bag jingling as he leaves. Moomin watches the weasel on his shoulder, it staring back. 

It’s never good news when a Joxter shows up uninvited. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Mymble puts her entire weight onto pushing the antique door open. “Just needs some elbow grease,” she mutters, embarrassed. Too-Ticky raises a brow, hiding a wide smile. Mymble digs her heels into the ground and tries once more, finding no luck.

“Let me try before ye break something,” Too-Ticky offers. Mymble steps aside with a huff, defeated. 

_Ding!_ The bell inside dings as Too-Ticky pulls open the door with ease. 

“Oh,” Mymble mumbles, face fully red. “Guess I forgot.” 

If Too-Ticky could profess her undying love to Mymble right then, she would. However, there’s a time and place for everything - no matter how bad her heart aches for the other woman. With a short chuckle, Too-Ticky enters the shop. 

Aisles of skulls, dummies, and books fill the shop. The shades are drawn, the storefront empty. It appears closed, or at least it’s trying to look that way. It’s certainly no place a fillyjonk would like to end up. 

“If it isn’t my favorite red-head!” A Snork appears from behind the wall of beads. On her ears are multiple earrings, her black hair loose braids. She leans on the counter, popping a large bubble of her gum. “Here for another piercing?” 

Mymble laughs forcefully, growing even redder. “No, no! I’m good!” She waves her paws furiously, wishing to drown herself before the embarrassment kills her. “I’m here for a favor, actually!”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she winks, pulling out a small memo pad from underneath the counter. “What can I do for you?”

“I, well, _we’re_ looking for something can cure…” she pauses, leaning closer, “ _curses._ Something a library wouldn’t own. And I _know_ you have some books. _”_

She tears off the sheet and tosses it into the bin. “Sorry doll. That’s my personal collection. I got an appearance to keep up, you know. Those books are good for the atmosphere.”

“Didn’t you say you _hated_ reading?” Mymble crosses her arms. “They’re useless to you!”

“ _So_?” She flips her braids back. “Is there anything else you need?”

With a snort Mymble taps her boots, thinking. “ _Actually,_ there is. My friend here _really_ wants to get her ears pierced but is a little nervous.” 

Too-Ticky’s gaze shoots up. “I beg ye pardon?” Mymble elbows her, meaning _hush._

“Are you kidding me? I can pierce ears in my sleep, come on back.” Her demeanor changes in a flash, waving the two behind the counter. 

“What are ye doing?” Too-Ticky hisses once she disappears behind the beads. 

“Just trust me,” Mymble replies with a cheeky wink, pulling her along.

Through the beaded door is a large room, lit entirely by half-melted candles. Plastered on the wall is a long bookshelf, jars of small animals submerged in alcohol separating the sections. Sitting in the corner is a worn-down chair, a strawberry pin holder sitting in the table nearby - full of sewing needles. 

“Are you wanting a standard lobe or something like a helix?” She points to her own ear, filled to the brim with piercings. 

“Er,” Too-Ticky swallows. 

“Why don’t you show her some of your drawings? That’ll help her make up her mind!” Mymble takes Too-Ticky by her paw and drags her to the chair, practically forcing her down. 

“Great idea, dollface.” She rubs her paws eagerly, rushing over the bookcase and pulling out a thick notebook bound together with string. As she walks over, Mymble takes the opportunity to take a step back, then another, slowly sliding away. “Alright, so here’s what you look like now.” She flips to a page displaying a fully nude woman, some details are drawn better than others. “But here’s what you _could_ look like.” Relatively, it’s the same picture. Save for the speckles of random dots, which Too-Ticky assumes are piercing. “Any that catch your eyes?” 

Too-Ticky leans over to see Mymble crotching, glancing over the books in a rush. “Don’t suppose ye don’t have for th’ ears?” 

As she continues to flip through her notebook, Mymble quickly pulls out a book of spells. Close, but no cigar. Her gaze flicks over to the two, still finding them distracted. Her mind races with titles, many in different languages altogether. ‘ _It has to be here somewhere!’_ She pushes aside a jar that contains a small mouse, for whatever reason _that_ existed. And _aha!_ Hiding behind the jar is a grimoire, its cover made of leathered animal skin, a large, ominous eye drawing burned ontop. With a shiver, she stuffs the book inside her sactual. 

“Would you just pick one already?” The snork slams the book shut, her patience dwindling. She reaches over to the cushion, pulling a needle out at random. 

“Actually, I think she’s changed her mind!” Mymble interrupts, grabbing Too-Ticky’s paw once more. She rips her up from the seat, practically running out the room and out the store.

“What?!” She’s not even able to turn around by the time they leave, the beads dangling in the wind. 

By the time they end up far away from the shop, both their chests ache from laughter. Mymble stops first, finally letting go of Too-Ticky’s paw. She bends over, gasping for breath. 

A few beats pass before either say a word. “So,” Too-Tickey begins, “piercings, eh?”

“Do shut up!” Mymble laughs, playfully pushing her away. “Oh!” She pulls out the book from her sactual. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“Sticky paws as well.” Too-Ticky shakes her head. “Learning a lot about ye t’day.” 

Mymble smiles, her chest still heaving. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I’m no innocent damsel, I’ll have you know.” 

“Anything but,” Too-Ticky agrees, taking the book from her paws, not before thanking her with a kiss. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin returns in the evening, sporting two fish on his pole. From the distance, he sees a rise of smoke coming from his campsite. _Moomin,_ he thinks with a chuckle. However, as he gets closer, it’s evident it’s not _only_ Moomin. His father sits adjacent from the fire, caring another doll from a small piece of wood. 

“Snufkin!” Moomin exclaims, dropping his wooden spoon. He rushes to meet Snufkin, embracing him in a tight embrace. 

“There’s the man of the hour!” Joxter laughs, not bothering to look up. 

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Snufkin says with a smile as he ventures inside his tent, retrieving his new blanket. Although his relationship with his estranged father is complicated, he’s still happy to see him from time to time. 

“Surprise, yes. Pleasant, no,” Joxter responds once Snufkin returns. 

Snufkin’s smile fades. “Oh? Is it a-”

“ _Foreboding, yes_ ,” he finishes in his native tongue. 

“ _Ah, so I see,”_ Snufkin replies. He sets down his bag, sitting beside his father and the tree trunk in which he practices his carving. 

Moomin looks at Snufkin’s back for a quiet moment, taking the time to just _love_ all of him. He could think of the light of early spring hitting his hair and his heart would ache. Snufkin is everything good wrapped into one. But he could see something foreign in Snufkin’s eyes, read it the line of his posture, the bags under his eyes. And now the scars on his lip, that couldn’t be made by mere picking. 

Snufkin pats the grass next to him, inviting Moomin to sit. And so he does. 

“What is this?” Moomin asks, seeing Joxter pull out a cigar box.

“A reading. It gives us answers when life cannot. Care to?” 

“M-Me?” Moomin stutters. 

Joxter smiles wickedly as he pulls out his Jolanda deck, shuffling.

“By the way, just what is that _thing?_ ” Snufkin asks, point to the sleeping weasel. 

“Oh! That is Kyckling! She is my friend.” He lays out the cards on the stump with one sliding motion. 

Snufkin frowns. “You named her _chicken?_ ” 

Joxter shrugs. “I was going to eat her, you see. Too cute, though.”

“ _Eat her_?!” Moomin nearly screams. “How could you?” 

With that, Joxter laughs once more. “He is a funny one! Now, pick one that’s callin’ your name,” he tells him, his paws on his knees and leaning forward eagerly.

Moomin swallows, nearly forgetting about the reading altogether. His paw hovers above the row of cards. They all look the same, how is he supposed to know which one to pick? “Er, Snufkin?”

There has to be an answer to this, something that could reject the notion that something is _terribly_ wrong. Snufkin, who is staring out into the evening, turns his head with a hum. “Close your eyes,” he says cooly, putting aside his worries. “Don’t overthink it.” He smiles, grabbing Moomin’s free paw and rubbing it encouragingly. “All will be well.” 

“ _Does he think these cards will bite him?”_ Joxter mocks lightly. 

Snufkin narrows his eyes, which means _leave him alone._ He frowns before his face clears, facing Moomin once more. 

“Okay,” Moomin says to himself reassuringly. Snufkin’s words made everything better, like a key unlocking the gate in his mind that refuses to open. Snufkin could soften everything inside him to water. He closes his eyes, telling himself Snufkin’s words - _don’t overthink it._

Joxter crosses his arms on his chest, pretending to be dozing off. If Snufkin could, he would climb over the table and smack his father upside the head. 

At last, the tip of Moomin’s claw taps a card, pulling it slightly toward himself. Moomin, who had been holding his breath, gasps, his eyes fluttering open. 

Joxter wakes up mid-snore, making Snufkin wonder if he was _truly_ asleep all along. “That your card?” he asks. 

Moomin goggled speechless at Joxter. He tries to speak, only managing a nod. 

“Very well.” Joxter flips the card over in one swift motion, landing on the trunk with a _fwip._

Moomin’s brows crease. “What in Groke’s name is _that?”_ The only thing he can make out is a large crescent moon, some figures below it, and a mess of red above. And what is that white smudge on the right?

“Do not speak to my cards like that!” Joxter hushes. “ _Teach him some respect!”_ he says to Snufkin.

_Respect,_ Snufkin thinks, what a funny thing coming from _him._ “It’s The Moon in the reversed position,” he says to Moomin, shuffling closer to his side before he could stop himself. 

“Oh! So it’s upside down!” Moomin cranes his neck, trying to make out the picture. Finally, it comes to him - on the bottom (or his top) is a reef full of fish, a pair of kittens staring at the moon, and three fairies looking down. And that smudge appears to be a _unicorn!_ “The... moon?” he repeats, reading the words for himself. 

“Yes, and since it’s reversed it means to trust your instincts,” Snufkin says, looking at the card. “You may have some unanswered anxieties, but they will lift. Or, at least, you’ll receive some clarity.” 

Moomin nods, thinking over his words carefully. “Suppose that wasn’t so bad.” 

“Not at all! You did splendidly.” 

Moomin’s ears and tail whips at the compliment, his face brightening. Snufkin’s voice is mellow and soothing, Moomin could listen to him ramble for hours, never once boring him. 

Taken from his lull, Joxter strikes a match. Moomin averts his attention from the silence that hung between them. In one paw is a smudge stick made from dried sage, the other a match. He waves it in front of the newly shuffled deck. 

It smells atrocious, Moomin’s snout crinkles as the smoke dissipates. 

“ _I have to cleanse my deck, their poor ears hearing such travesties.”_ Joxter shakes his head, tsking. After the task is complete, he repeats the process - shuffling the deck and laying them out. 

Snufkin sighs, then falls silent. He listens to the crickets low humming, the gentle wind blowing in the treetops. Moomin watches him thoughtfully. At once, he reaches out and taps a card, the one sitting adjacent to Moomin. 

Before Joxter can speak, Snufkin assures, “Yes.” 

Joxter nods and flips the card over - The Tower in the advice position. 

Snufkin’s heart stops as soon as he sees the red tower, the snake slithering, and the lightning in the background. Horror encases him up to the neck, drowning.

“What does that mean?” Moomin asks innocently, leaning forward. 

Snufkin flips the card back over. “Nothing. Just a little back luck is all.” In truth, it means much more than simply _bad luck._ A change has already been unleashed, its forces only growing by the day. Only destruction will come, the outcome unknown. 

A terrible card to get, indeed. 

“ _My premonitions were about you, weren’t they?”_ Joxter says suddenly grave, his chin lifting slightly. “ _What trouble have you gotten yourself into?”_

“ _Nothing a mumrik can’t handle,”_ Snufkin replies courtly. “ _We are meant to save our own skin, are we not?”_ This isn’t serious, whatever-it-is. It’s the delirium talking, the delirium making him panic. What he needs is rational cogitation, not some life-ruining insanities running through his mind -

“Snufkin? Do you hear me?” 

The resonant voice breaks through the panic, Snufkin blinking dumbly at the troll. 

“Your, ah, paws…” He produces a low whisper, his head motioning to their paws connected. 

Snufkin’s paw retracts swiftly - he had been squeezing so tightly like a wire ready to snap. 

“Was it that bad of a reading?” Moomin asks, ignoring the strange piercing in his paws.

Snufkin looks at Moomin, trying desperately to piece together some sort of answer - some way of saying _it’s all going to be alright,_ as he’s told the troll countless of times before. 

_“It was a terrible dream,”_ Joxter says. _“I couldn’t sleep three nights after. I don’t know what it could mean. Perhaps I can share some details to give us some clarity?”_

Snufkin stares blankly at his father. The voices come from far away, unable to pierce through the hanging fog surrounding his mind. Too much is unraveling at once, too much to process - 

“Snufkin?” Moomin asks again. Only this time Snufkin doesn’t turn. Moomin places a paw on his shoulder. Nothing. A pit forms in Moomin’s stomach. He gives a light push. “What’s wrong?” 

A beat passes until the mental fog recedes. “No need to worry yourself,” Snufkin manages to say easily. It was nearly impossible to sound _easy_ but felt he needed to hide his fear from Moomin. His heart beats quickly in his chest. Fear twists and turns inside him, ripping away with sharp fangs. “It’s such a lovely night,” he mutters, rising to his feet. “A shame to waste it. I think I’ll go for an evening stroll.” 

“O-Oh!” Moomin sputters, taken by surprise. “May I join-?”

“No, no, that’s quite alright,” he shrilly interrupts. Snufkin stands, holding onto the blanket, staring beyond his father. With how tight he pulls, the blanket clings to him. Without a word, he turns and takes off. Left alone, they sit in a thick air of silence. Moomin looks down at his lap, drumming his fingers against his thigh. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin winds his way through the forest path, going up the steep hills with not much but a quick huff. He walks steadily, pacing himself to admire the wild and beautiful wilderness. To someone like Moomin, all these things would enter their mind with only vague awareness. To Snufkin, he notices every windblown cliff, every ascent and descent. He lets the scenery erode his worry, his dread. 

He feels his life diving into deep waters, that he _should_ keep his sight on land for as long as possible. After all, it was _just_ a card reading. But then there’s the snowball effect - the meeting with _The Lady,_ the scar, and now the reading. His mind begs to think everything over systematically, to get some sort of _answer._ And yet - he knows it’s not an answer he wants to hear. 

The sky darkens, not entirely from the oncoming night. Thick fog rises from the ground, saturating his clothes and hair. The visibility is poor enough to make the walk dangerous. Snufkin is the type that weather affects him little, but even he could notice the drop in temperature. Cold stings his cheeks as he walks faster, his feet ache with the cold that strikes through the worn soles of his boots. 

_‘Perhaps that’s me doing this,’_ he thinks with a sigh. But then he thinks better of it. Here he is! Searching the woods for his wits and doing just the opposite. He almost laughs at the thoughts that sprung in his head, serving as volition of their own accord. After all, such an idea is _absurd._

As Snufkin continues, ending up on a hidden graveyard, a large, dark figure appears on the path in the opposite direction from where he walks. He stops in his tracks, eyes squinting ahead. The figure struggles forward, a gush of wind following it. The long black shape capers like a sail blowing along by the wind.

Such places, especially at dusk, are desolate. 

For lighting, Snufkin depends on a lamp but foolishly left his belongings back at the tent. His night eyes don’t serve him justice in the fog. 

And then he sees what’s laying before him through the black limbs of trees. The cold in the air, it’s not _him._ It’s _her._ The Groke wears a large dress, loose and shapeless. The sleeves drop down beyond her paws. It reminds him of a clerical dress, although that doesn’t explain the hood covering her head. 

A crow descendants from the stormy clouds, screaming for others of its kind to flee. 

Snufkin grips the blanket in his paws, his mouth agape. He has no refuge out in the open, in the graveyard. Already he stands apart from it all, appearing gilded compared to the mildew-covered tombstones. The frozen ground behind him crunches as his boots trail backward. His limbs become stiff, frozen in place. _Why is she here? I don’t have a light!_

The Groke stops in front of Snufkin and looks down at his windblown air. He doesn’t say anything, feeling any words to be unworthy of her. Rather, he waits for whatever will befall. It feels as though the Groke is the judge, deciding whether or not he deserves to be hanged. Snufkin closes his eyes to shut out the large, menacing creature - his breathing nothing more than a period of short gasps. 

Her jaw snaps open, a deep moan escaping from her lungs. A rush of frost escapes in her breath. 

Snufkin flinches, holding his paws over his ears - letting the blanket fall to his feet. He had not chosen the action, it was involuntary. How he longs to sink to his knees - to stretch out his hands and beg for mercy. What would happen, rather, he would bury himself between his legs. Yet he can’t bring himself to do _anything._

The Groke sinks down, diffidently retrieving the dropped blanket. With a gentle clasp, she lays it across his shoulders as it were, resting there momentarily before removing herself. 

Snufkin glances upward at her. With a grunt, she pulls the blanket tighter around him. He blinks, regrounding himself before taking the edge of the fabric in his paws. Satisfied, her paws release their grip. 

They stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment. The recollection passes through Snufkin’s mind that she not only _approached him,_ but she seemingly cared for him? At least, it appeared that way. 

Without giving him a minute for thought, the Groke turns. Soon enough, the graveyard is silent, all life still and remarkably dark. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

“So,” Moomin begins absently, still staring down the path Snufkin disappeared down, “how long are you staying in town Mr., _er_ , Joxter sir?” 

Joxter hums as he turns over his bag (not before carefully setting his fiddle aside), letting all objects fall to the ground. Taking the time to do an inventory of sorts. “Till my pelt stops its shitting.” 

“Shedding,” Moomin corrects with a nod. 

Joxter waves his paw dismissively. He leans over his pile, gently touching each of the dolls with the tip of his forefinger. Kyckling sniffs the hair of a doll, before whipping back with a small grunt of disapproval. 

“ _Psst,_ come here.” Moomin pats his thigh, calling for the small creature. Although it seems interested in everything _besides_ the troll. 

“She’s a chicken, not a dog!” Joxter cries suddenly, placing his paws on his hips. With a dramatic huff, he stuffs everything back into his back. Kyckling jumps onto his shoulders right before he stands. 

“I think you mean weasel,” Moomin offers once more but jumps at his response. 

“ _Pah!_ You Moomins wouldn’t know the difference between your ass from your head.” A confusing sort of laughter jarred out of him as he turns and sways out of the clearing.

Moomin’s eyes remain wide and unbelieving. To think this man could be his _father-in-law_ one day. And suppose that isn’t so bad. In fact, it sends a smile blooming on his face - thinking of Snufkin carrying him around on his shoulders, as his own little Kyckling. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

  
Nightfall is halfway burned out by the time Snufkin reaches his tent. He looks at the house, still and breathless. A spell of winter still lingers over him, yet he feels comforted by the simple presence of Moomin’s house. Even better, however, would be in Moomin’s room. Where no monsters could come out from under the bed. 

At the top step, he can see the old paint curling on the window frame. He taps lightly, a feather of a knock. Then he hears it - _crack._ His paw retracts like a whip. From the center of the window where he had so lightly touched grows a small patch of _ice._

“No,” he mutters to himself, “no, no, _no, no, no!”_

The rope ladder that he has climbed so easily in the past whips back and forth as he loses his footing. The wood rattles against the paneling, his arms tumbling in circles to keep his balance. A light inside Moomin’s room flicks on, the sound of feet tumbling to the floor. 

Time slows as his boot slips. A scream catches in his throat, his eyes wide with fear. 

Moomin thrashes open the window, lurching his body halfway out the window. 

Snufkin’s paws turn in the air slightly, grabbing hold of one of the planks. His claws dig into it, his legs left dangling. Luckily, it hadn’t been much of a fall, a trip more like - merely a few steps. 

_“Snufkin!”_ Moomin screams in despair. “Are you alright?” his voice growing more shrill. 

Snufkin’s shaky feet find footing, and there he stands, catching his wobbly breath. For a moment, he stays put, hugging whatever he can. After several moments pass, he climbs the ladder once more - much slower than previously. His legs nearly shrivel up like dead flower stems. 

“Honestly!” Moomin says, pulling him into his room. “You gave me a heart attack!” 

Snufkin stares ahead, both his paws clutching onto Moomin’s forearm as if life depends on it. Sweat forms on his forehead like mist on a window. He breathes in short whistles, trying to hold down the gasps. “Mm-” _Moomin_ he tries to say but it doesn’t come out, the words washing away. He shuts his eyes and bows his head down, hiding his shiny eyes. 

Moomin pulls Snufkin hard against him. Snufkin can feel shaking but doesn’t know if it started with him or Moomin. But, _oh,_ how wonderfully _warm_ he is, Snufkin can’t help but let out a faltering sigh. Moomin kisses his hair quickly, clumsy over and over. 

“Don’t scare me like that.” His voice comes out hot by Snufkin’s ear as he clutches him even tighter. 

“Have you-?” Snufkin asks hoarsely. “Have you any gloves?” 

“Gloves? Oh dear, have you hurt your paws?” Moomin removes himself, grabbing one of Snufkin’s paws to inquire. He turns them over, finding nothing more than a few scratches. He heard the words, the request, but he can’t follow Snufkin’s inflections and what they _truly_ mean. 

Exhaustion courses through Snufkin’s body, mind - unable to chive up some sort of excuse. All he does is screw up his face as if in pain, which isn’t _that_ far from the truth. 

“Right!” Moomin decides suddenly. “Gloves, oh gloves, where did I last see you?” With sudden determination, he rushes over to the dresser, ripping open every drawer and throwing the gowns and fabric about. “Scarf, no. Jacket, no. Aha! There you are!” He pulls out a singular scarlet glove, rummaging through the mess on the floor for its pair. 

It isn't a minute later till Moomin returns, gently taking each paw, sliding the glove down. He pulls the string, tying a loose knot at the end for each pair. 

“Is that,” Moomin says, holding Snufkin’s paws in his own. “Is that all you needed?” 

Snufkin shakes his head, staring into Moomin’s eyes for nearly a full minute. Letting himself be held makes him feel vulnerable in matters undefined. Yet he doesn’t pull away, reject his touch. “I need you,” Snufkin whispers. 

As children, the bed had been plenty big enough for the two to sleep comfortably. Over the years the bed grew narrow as Moomin’s frame grew larger. But Snufkin never minds to squeeze next to the troll, chin tucked in the crook of his neck. Moomin, in turn, would tuck in Snufkin’s gown from the edge of the bed, bringing him as close as possible. 

Tonight is no different, if not a bit rushed. Snufkin wastes no time at all to hop into bed, only then realizing to take off his boots. Come morning his smock will be creased and crumpled, but that is the least of his concern. Once his boots are off, they land on the floor with a _thud._ His feet meet the chill air through the holes in his wool socks. He shivers, pulling the sheets over and up to his neck. 

Moomin’s smile started no more like a weak sun, although now that sun has fully set. Snufkin doesn’t look up as the floor squeaks with Moomin’s footsteps. 

His paw cups Snufkin’s cheek, feeling the bristles coming through his fur as he skipped shaving that morning. 

“Come to bed,” Snufkin whispers, looking anywhere beside Moomin’s eyes. 

Moomin keeps stroking his cheek, his thumb circling the apple. “Tell me,” he says, “the worst of it, everything.” 

Snufkin tries to smile, the effort being painful. He can’t bear composure to lie. The fear of his own is contagious, it seems. He takes a deep breath, trying to fight down his queasy stomach. There’s hesitation - whether or not he should tell the truth. 

“You’re much too brave to let something like that bother you,” Moomin says as he climbs into bed. 

Snufkin smiles politely, rubbing at his elbows as the bed sinks with the added weight. “You’re right, that isn’t the full of it.” 

“Ah, so you admit it then?” he asks contritely, although appearing to be teasing. He settles beside Snufkin with his arms open in invitation. Snufkin takes it, resting his head on his shoulders. “So tell me, what is it that’s bothering you?” 

Snufkin catches himself in a shiver, cursing himself for his cowardice. His heart slams inside his chest, still high from the adrenaline from the fall, from the _ice._ There’s only one fire he can put out at a time and he’s burning alive.

First is the thought of honesty, to sit in the confession booth and beg to repent. But Moomin has had such a tough year… Snufkin stares at his stomach, his arm, at the steady rise and fall of his chest. He thinks of those sleepless nights spent sobbing, screaming, and how all he could do is _sit,_ sit, and listen - feeling useless. If he could save Moomin that same pain, is it so wrong to do so? 

“I ran into someone tonight.” Snufkin pauses to swallow. “The Groke.”

“What?” Moomin gasps. He pulls Snufkin closer, putting his arms around his shoulders and forcing him into an embrace. 

It all happened so fast - Snufkin so stunned at his initial reaction that his paw lay still. Moomin squeezes his eyes shut, albeit the plan not working because he bursts into tears. 

“Oh, Snuf,” he wails. “She got a hold of you, didn’t she? She grabbed your paws and ripped them to shreds!” Moomin sobs out into the open. 

Snufkin’s gaze falls to the bedding, fighting away his own urge to cry. There’s nothing more heartbreaking than hearing his best friend cry, it nearly makes him ill. He almost forgot the feeling of tears falling onto his cheek, his shoulder. And, oh, how he wishes he did. There’s something there that tugs at his heart that’s behind his comprehension. “She didn’t hurt me,” he says after finally finding his voice. “Put me on edge, is all,” the shiver bleeds in his voice. The despair of the situation hits him dully. As if one could get used to a sort of thing. But how is he to tell Moomin the truth, the _whole_ truth, when it won’t solve a thing? It will only cause more heartbreak, more worry. 

“You mean so much to me,” Moomin says, voice nearly a whisper, “I could never lose you.” He slowly rocks back and forth, holding Snufkin’s frame against him. “I _can’t_ lose you.” He squeezes tighter. 

If only he could say _that’ll never happen,_ but he _can’t._ Nothing in life is certain. 

Moomin pulls back after several silent moments, revealing his burning red eyes, now dry of tears. 

The moment of peace stops in the place Snufkin seeks comfort. Suddenly, he feels afraid. Something terrible, much like a fire, engulfs inside him. Something dark is growing inside his body, seeping into his veins. Something -

“O-Oh,” Moomin sniffles with a small smile, “you got some of Kyckling’s fur in your hair.” 

Snufkin’s face is filled with paralyzed, hopeless fear as Moomin leans forward to pull at the silver strand of hair on top of his head, pulling, but it doesn’t give.

**Author's Note:**

> follow my dang twitter https://twitter.com/mylovelyskies/status/1281385176812195842


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